u 


LUCASlMALET 


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THE  HISTORY  OF 
SIR  RICHARD   CALMADY 


10  xsimeiH  hhY 


Copyright^  igoi 
;  By  Dodd,  Mead  &  Company 


A  Vj  ^  }  /      n  .  .  /      ,  ^  jx  J-i  i  t. c. X wit  I  .  i   I 


CONTENTS  ^^ 


BOOK  I 


THE  CLOWN 


/ 


««Ar.  FAGS 

X.    Acquainting  the   Reader  with  a  Fair  Domain  and  the  Maker 

Thereof X 

II.     Giving  the  Very  Earliest  Information  Obtainable;  of  the  Hero  of 

this  Book 7 

III.  Touching  Matters  Clerical  and  Controversial i^ 

IV.  Raising   Problems  which  it  is  the   Purpose  of  this  History  to 

Resolve 25 

V.     In  which  Julius  March  Beholds  the  Vision  of  the  New  Life  .    .  34 

VI,     Accident  or  Destiny,  According  to  Your  Humour 44 

Vn.     Mrs.  William  Ormiston  Sacrifices  a  Wine-glass  to  Fate  ....  57 

VIII,     Enter  a  Child  of  Promise 69 

IX.     In  which  Katherine  Calmady  Looks  on  Her  Son 76 

X.     The  Birds  of  the  Air  Take  Their  Breakfast 84 


BOOK  II 

THE  BREAKING  OF  DREAMS 

I.     Recording  some  Aspects  of  a  Small  Pilgrim's  Progress  ....     95 
II.     In  which  Our  Hero  Improves  His  Acquaintance  with  Many 

f  Things — Himself  Included 104 

III.     Concerning   that  which,  Thank   God,  Happens   Almost  Every 

Day 117 

TV.     Which  Smells  very  Vilely  of  the  Stable 128 

V.     In  which  Dickie  is  Introduced  to  a  Little  Dancer  with  Blush- 
roses  in  Her  Hat 140 

VI.     Dealing  with  a  Physician  of  the  Body  and  a  Physician  or  the 

Soul 149 

VIL     An  Attempt  to  Make  the  Best  of  It 15$ 

VIII.     Telling,  Incidentally,  of  a  Broken-down  Postboy  and  a  Country 

Fair 169 


V 


48998 


CONTENTS 

BOOK  III 

LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERCI 

I.     In  which  Our  Hero's  World  Grows  Sensibly  Wider l8l 

II,     Telling  How  Dickie's  Soul  was  Somewhat  Sick,  and  How  He 

Met  Fair  Women  on  the  Confines  of  a  Wood 1 86 

III.  In  which  Richard  Confirms  One  Judgment  and  Reverses  An- 

other    195 

IV.  Julius  March  Bears  Testimony 203 

V.    Telling  How  Queen  Mary»s  Crystal  Ball  Came  to  Fall  on  the 

Gallery  Floor 215 

VI.     In  which  Dickie  Tries  to  Ride  Away  from  His  Own  Shadow, 

with  Such  Success  as  Might  Have  Been  Anticipated   ....    231 
VII.     Wherein  the  Reader  is  Courteously  Invited  to  Improve  His  Ac- . 

quaintance  with  Certain  Persons  of  Quality .^40 

VIII.     Richard  Puts  His  Hand  to  a  Plough  from  which  There  is  no 

Turning  Back ^52 

IX.     Which  Touches  Incidentally  on  Matters  of  Finance 264 

X.     Mr.  Ludovic  Quayle  Among  the  Prophets 2S0 

XI.     Containing  Samples  Both  of  Earthly  and  Heavenly  Love  .    .    .   289 


BOOK  IV 

A  SLIP  BETWIXT  CUP  AND  LIP 

I.     Lady  Louisa  Bark'ing  Traces  the  Finger  of  Providence   ....   302 
II.     Telling   How  Vanity  Fair   Made   Acquaintance  with   Richard 

Calmady 314 

III.  In  which  Katherine  Tries  to  Nail  Up  the  Weather-glass  to  Set 

Fair 32^ 

IV.  A  Lesson  Upon  the  Eleventh  Commandment — "  Parents  Obey 

Your  Children  '* 337 

V.     Iphigenia 350 

VI.     In  which  Honoria  St.  Quentin  Takes  the  Field 36? 

VII.     Recording  the  Astonishing  Valour  Displayed  by  a  Certain  Small 

Mouse  in  a  Corner '37S 

VIII.     A  Manifestation  of  the  Spirit 386 

IX.     In  which  Dickie  Shakes  Hands  with  the  Devil 397 


CONTENTS  vu 

BOOK  V 
RAKE'S  PROGRESS 

I,  In  which  the  Reader  is  Courteously  Entreated  to  Grow  Older 

by  the  Space  of  Some  Four  Years,  and  to  Sail  Southward  Hot 

Away 41" 

II.    Wherein  Time  is  Discovered  to  Have  Worked  Changes  ....   429 
in.     Helen  de  Vallorbes  Apprehends  Vexatious  Complications  .    .    .   438 

IV.     «  Mater  Admirabilis  '* 447 

V.     Exit  Camp 455 

VI.     In  which  M.  Paul  Destournelle  Has  the  Bad  Taste  to  Threaten 

to  Upset  the  Apple-cart 469 

VH.     Splendide  Mendax 479. 

VIII.     Helen    de  Vallorbes  Learns  Her  Rival's  Name 490 

IX.     Concerning  that  Daughter  of  Cupid  and  Psyche  Whom  Men 

Call  Voluptas 506 

X.     The  Abomination  of  Desolation 511 

XI.     In  which  Dickie  Goes  to  the  End  of  the  World  and  Looks  Over 

the  Wall 526 

BOOK  VI 
THE  NEW  HEAVEN  AND  THE  NEW  EARTH 

I,     Miss  St.  Quentin  Bears  Witness  to  the  Faith  that  is  in  Her   .    .   544 

II.  Telling  How,  Once  Again,  Katherine  Calmady  Looked  on  He^ 

Son 555 

in.     Concerning  a  Spirit  in  Prison 566 

IV.     Dealing  with  Matters  of  Hearsay  and  Matters  of  Sport   ....    575 
V.    Telling  How  Dickie  Came  to  Untie  a  Certain  Tag  of  Rusty, 

Black  Ribbon 588 

VL     A  Litany  of  the  Sacred  Heart 600 

VH.     Wherein  Two  Enemies  are  Seen  to  Cry  Quits 61 1 

VHL     Concerning  the  Brotherhood  Founded  by  Richard  Calmady,  and 

Other  Matters  of  Some  Interest 628 

IX.    Telling  How  Ludovic  Quayle  and  Honoria  St.  Quentin  Watched 

the  Trout  Rise  in  the  Long  Water 639 

X.     Concerning  a  Day  of  Honest  Warfare  and  a  Sunset  Harbinger 

Not  of  the  Night  But  of  the  Dawn 655 

XI.     In  which   Richard   Calmady  Bids  the   Long-suffering  Reader 
^  Farewell $j^ 


rt  i  i/ui\  AUJ 


s'jnni-'fTj; 


The  History  of 
Sir  Richard  Calmady 


BOOK  I 

THE  CLOWN 
CHAPTER  I 

ACQUAINTING    THE    READER    WITH    A    FAIR    DOMAIN    ANI> 
THE    MAKER    THEREOF 

TN  that  fortunate  hour  of  English  history,  when  the  cruel 
-*-  sights  and  haunting  insecurities  of  the  Middle  Ages  had 
passed  away,  and  while,  as  yet,  the  fanatic  zeal  of  Puritanism 
had  not  cast  its  blighting  shadow  over  all  merry  and  pleasant 
things,  it  seemed  good  to  one  Denzil  Calmady,  esquire,  to 
build  himself  a  stately  red-brick  and  freestone  house  upon  the 
southern  verge  of  the  great  plateau  of  moorland  which  ranges 
northward  to  the  confines  of  Windsor  Forest  and  eastward  to 
the  Surrey  Hills.  And  this  he  did  in  no  vainglorious  spirit, 
with  purpose  of  exalting  himself  above  the  county  gentlemen, 
his  neighbours,  and  showing  how  far  better  lined  his  pockets 
were  than  theirs.  Rather  did  he  do  it  from  an  honest  love  of 
all  that  is  ingenious  and  comely,  and  as  the  natural  outgrowth 
of  an  inquiring  and  philosophic  mind.     For  Denzil  Calmady, 


2  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

like  so  many  another  son  of  that  happy  age,  was  something 
more  than  a  mere  wealthy  country  squire,  breeder  of  beef  and 
brewer  of  ale.  He  was  a  courtier  and  traveler ;  and,  if  tradi- 
tion speaks  truly,  a  poet  who  could  praise  his  mistress's  many 
charms,  or  wittily  resent  her  caprices,  in  well-turned  verse. 
He  was  a  patron  of  art,  having  brought  back  ivories  and 
bronzes  from  Italy,  pictures  and  china  from  the  Low  Coun- 
tries, and  enamels  from  France.  He  was  a  student,  and  col- 
lected the  many  rare  and  handsome  leather-bound  volumes 
telling  of  curious  arts,  obscure  speculations,  half-fabulous  his- 
tories, voyages,  and  adventures,  which  still  constitute  the 
almost  unique  value  of  the  Brockhurst  library.  He  might 
claim  to  be  a  man  of  science,  moreover — of  that  delectable 
old-world  science  which  has  no  narrow-minded  quarrel  with 
miracle  or  prodigy,  wherein  angel  and  demon  mingle  freely, 
lending  a  hand  unchallenged  to  complicate  the  operations  both 
of  nature  and  of  grace — a  science  which,  even  yet,  in  perfect 
good  faith,  busied  itself  with  the  mysteries  of  the  Rosy  Cross, 
mixed  strange  ingredients  into  a  possible  Elixir  of  Life,  ran  far 
afield  in  search  for  the  Philosopher's  Stone,  gathered  herbs  for 
the  confection  of  simples  during  auspicious  phases  of  the  moon, 
and  beheld  in  comet  and  meteor  awful  forewarnings  of  public 
calamity  or  of  Divine  Wrath. 

From  all  of  which  it  may  be  premised  that  when,  like  the 
wise  king,  of  old,  in  Jerusalem,  Denzil  Calmady  "  builded  hin> 
houses,  made  him  gardens  and  orchards,  and  planted  trees  in 
them  of  all  kind  of  fruits";  when  he  "made  him  pools  of 
water  to  water  therewith  the  wood  that  bringeth  forth  trees  " ; 
when  he  "gathered  silver  and  gold  and  the  treasure  of  prov- 
inces," and  got  him  singers,  and  players  of  musical  instru- 
ments, and  "  the  delights  of  the  sons  of  men," — he  did  so  that, 
having  tried  and  sifted  all  these  things,  he  might,  by  the  exer- 
cise of  a  ripe  and  untrammeled  judgment,  decide  what 
amongst  them  is  illusory  and  but  as  a  passing  show,  and  what 
— be  it  never  so  small  a  remnant — has  in  it  the  promise  of 
eternal  subsistence,  and  therefore  of  vital  worth ;  and  that, 
having  so  decided  and  thus  gained  an  even  mind,  he  might 
prepare  serenely  to  take  leave  of  the  life  he  had  dared  so 
largely  to  live. 

Commencing  his  labours  at  Brockhurst  during  the  closing 
years  of  the  reign  of  Queen  Elizabeth,  Denzil  Calmady  com- 


THE  CLOWN  3 

pleted  them  in  1611  with  a  royal  house-warming.  For  the 
space  of  a  week,  during  the  autumn  of  that  year, — the  last 
autumn,  as  it  unhappily  proved,  that  graceful  and  scholarly 
prince  was  fated  to  see,^ — Henry,  Prince  of  Wales,  conde- 
scended to  be  his  guest.  He  was  entertained  at  Brockhurst — 
as  contemporary  records  inform  the  curious — with  "  much 
feastinge  and  many  joyous  masques  and  gallant  pastimes,"  in- 
cluding "  a  great  slayinge  of  deer  and  divers  beastes  and  fowl 
in  the  woods  and  coverts  thereunto  adjacent."  It  is  added, 
with  unconscious  irony,  that  his  host,  being  a  "true  lover  of 
all  wild  creatures,  had  caused  a  fine  bear-pit  to  be  digged  be- 
yond the  outer  garden  wall  to  the  west."  And  that,  on  the 
Sunday  afternoon  of  the  Prince's  visit,  there  "  was  held  a  most 
mighty  baitinge,"  to  witness  which  "  many  noble  gentlemen 
of  the  neighbourhood  did  visit  Brockhurst  and  lay  there  two 
nights." 

Later  it  is  reported  of  Denzil  Calmady,  who  was  an  excel- 
lent churchman, — suspected  even,  notwithstanding  his  little 
turn  for  philosophy,  of  a  greater  leaning  towards  the  old  Mass- 
Book  than  towards  the  modern  Book  of  Common  Prayer, — 
that  he  notably  assisted  Laud,  then  Bishop  of  St.  David's,  in 
respect  of  certain  delicate  diplomacies.  Laud  proved  not  un- 
grateful to  his  friend ;  who,  in  due  time,  was  honoured  with 
one  of  King  James's  newly  instituted  baronetcies,  not  to  men- 
tion some  few  score  seedling  Scotchfirs,  which,  taking  kindly  to 
the  light  moorland  soil,  increased  and  multiplied  exceedingly 
and  sowed  themselves  broadcast  over  the  face  of  the  surround- 
ing country. 

And,  save  for  the  vigorous  upgrowth  of  those  same  fir  trees, 
and  for  the  fact  that  bears  and  bear-pit  had  long  given  place  to 
race-horses  and  to  a  great  square  of  stable  buildings  in  the  hol- 
low lying  back  from  the  main  road  across  the  park,  Brock- 
hurst was  substantially  the  same  in  the  year  of  grace  1842, 
when  this  truthful  history  actually  opens,  as  it  had  been  when 
Sir  Denzil's  workmen  set  the  last  tier  of  bricks  of  the  last 
twisted  chimney-stack  in  its  place.  The  grand,  simple  masses 
of  the  house — Gothic  in  its  main  lines,  but  with  much  of 
Renaissance  work  in  its  details — still  lent  themselves  to  the 
same  broad  effects  of  light  and  shadow,  as  it  crowned  the 
southern  and  western  sloping  hillside  amid  its  red-walled  gar- 
<lens  and  pepper-pot  summer-houses,  its  gleaming  ponds  and 


4^  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

watercourses,  its  hawthorn  dotted  paddocks ;  its  ancient  ave- 
nues of  ehn,  of  lime,  and  oak.  The  same  panelings  and 
tapestries  clothed  the  walls  of  its  spacious  rooms  and  passages ; 
the  same  quaint  treasures  adorned  its  fine  Italian  cabinets ; 
the  same  air  of  large  and  generous  comfort  pervaded  it.  As 
the  child  of  true  lovers  is  said  to  bear  through  life,  in  a  certain 
giad  beauty  of  person  and  of  nature,  witness  to  the  glad  hour 
of  its  conception,  so  Brockhurst,  on  through  the  accumulating 
years,  still  bore  witness  to  the  fortunate  historic  hour  in  which 
it  was  planned. 

Yet,  since  in  all  things  material  and  mortal  there  is  always 
a  little  spot  of  darkness,  a  germ  of  canker,  at  least  the  echo  of 
a  cry  of  fear — lest  life  being  too  sweet,  man  should  grow 
proud  to  the  point  of  forgetting  he  is,  after  all,  but  a  pawn 
upon  the  board,  but  the  sport  and  plaything  of  destiny  and  the 
vast  purposes  of  God— all  was  not  quite  well  with  Brock- 
hurst. At  a  given  moment  of  time,  the  diabolic  element  had 
of  necessity  obtruded  itself.  And,  in  the  chronicles  of  this  de- 
lightful dwelling-place,  even  as  in  those  of  Eden  itself,  the 
angels  are  proven  net  to  have  had  things  altogether  their  own 
gracious  way. 

v,The  pierced  stone  parapet,  which  runs  round  three  sides  of 
the  house,  and  constitutes,  architecturally,  one  of  its  most  note- 
worthy features,  is  broken  in  the  centre  of  the  north  front  by 
^  tall-,  stepped  and  sharply  pointed  gable,  flanked  on  either 
hand  by  slender,  four-sided  pinnacles.  From  the  niche  in  the 
said  gable,  arrayed  in  sugar-loaf  hat,  full  doublet  and  trunk 
hose,  his  head  a  trifle  bent  so  that  the  tip  of  his  pointed  beard 
rests  on  the  pleatings  of  his  marble  ruff,  a  carpenter's  rule  in 
his  right  hand.  Sir  Denzil  Calmady  gazes  meditatively  down. 
Delicate,  coral-hke  tendrils  of  the  Virginian  creeper,  which 
covers  the  house  walls,  and  strays  over  the  bay  windows  of  the 
Long  Gallery  below,  twine  themselves  yearly  about  his  ankles 
and  his  square-toed  shoes.  The  swallows  yearly  attempt  to 
fix  their  gray,  mud  nests  against  the  flutings  of  the  scallop- 
shell  canopy  sheltering  his  bowed  head ;  and  are  yearly 
-ejected  by  cautious  gardeners  armed  with  imposing  array  of 
ladders  and  conscious  of  no  little  inward  reluctance  to  face  the 
clangers  of  so  aerial  a  height. 

And  here,  it  may  not  be  unfitting  to  make  further  mention 
of  that  same  little  spot  of  darkness,  germ  of  canker,  echo  of 


THE  CLOWN  c 

the  cry  of  fear,  that  had  come  to  mar  the  fair  records  of  Block- 
hurst.  For  very  certain  it  was  that  among  the  varying  scenes, 
moving  merry  or  majestic,  upon  which  Sir  Denzil  had  looked 
down  during  the  two  and  a  quarter  centuries  of  his  sojourn  in 
the  lofty  niche  of  the  northern  gable,  there  was  one  his  eyes 
had  never  yet  rested  upon — -one  matter,  and  that  a  very  vital 
one,  to  which  had  he  applied  his  carpenter's, rule  the  measure 
of  it  must  have  proved  persistently  and  grievously  short. 

Along  the  straight  walks,  across  the  smooth  lawns,  and  be- 
side the  brilliant  flower-borders  of  the  formal  gardens,  he  had 
seen  generations  of  babies  toddle  and  stagger,  with  gurglings 
of  delight,  as  they  clutched  at  glancing  bird  or  butterfly  far  out 
of  reach.  He  had  seen  healthy,  clean-limbed,  boisterous  lads 
and  dainty,  little  maidens  laugh  and  play,  quarrel,  kiss,  and  be 
friends  again.  He  had  seen  ardent  lovers — in  glowing  June 
twilights,  while  the  nightingales  shouted  from  the  laurels,  or 
from  the  coppices  in  the  park  below — driven  to  the  most  des- 
perate straits,  to  visions  of  cold  poison,  of  horse-pistols,  of 
immediate  enlistment,  or  the  consoling  arm.s  of  Betty  the 
housemaid,  by  the  coquetries  of  some  young  lady  captivating 
in  powder  and  patches,  or  arrayed  in  the  high-waisted,  agree- 
ably-revealing costume  which  our  grandmothers  judged  it  not 
improper  to  wear  in  their  youth.  He  had  seen  husband  and 
wife,  too,  wandering  hand  in  hand  at  first,  tenderly  hopeful 
and  elate.  And  then,  sometimes,  as  the  years  lengthened,^^— 
they  growing  somewhat  sated  with  the  ease  of  their  high  es- 
tate,— he  had  seen  them  hand  in  hand  no  longer,  waxing  cold 
and  indifferent,  debating  even,  at  moments,  reproachfully 
whether  they  might  not  have  invested  the  capital  of  their  affec- 
tions to  better  advantage  elsewhere. 

All  this  and  much  more  Sir  Denzil  had  seen,  and  doubtless 
measured,  for  all  that  he  appears  so  immovably  calm  and  apart. 
But  that  which  he  had  never  yet  seen  was  a  man  of  his  name 
and  race,  full  of  years  and  honours,  come  slowly  forth  from 
the  stately  house  to  sun  himself,  morning  or  evening,  in  the 
comfortable  shelter  of  the  high,  red-brick,  rose-grown  garden 
walls.  Looking  the  while,  with  the  pensive  resignation  of  old 
age,  at  the  goodly,  wide-spreading  prospect.  Smiling  again 
over  old  jokes,  warming  again  over  old  stories  of  prowess  with 
horse  and  hound,  or  rod  and  gun.  Feeling  the  eyes  moisten 
again  at  the  memory  of  old  loves,  and  of  those  far-away  first 


^  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

embraces  which  seemed  to  open  the  gates  of  paradise  and  cre- 
ate the  world  anew  ;  at  remembrances  of  old  hopes  too,  which 
proved  still-born,  and  of  old  distresses,  which  often  enough 
proved  still-born  likewise, — the  whole  of  these  simplified  now, 
sanctified,  the  tumult  of  them  stilled,  along  with  the  hot,  young 
blood  which  went  to  make  them,  by  the  kindly  torpor  of  in- 
creasing age  and  the  approaching  footsteps  of  greatly  reconcil- 
ing Death. 

For  Sir  Denzil's  male  descendants,  one  and  all, — so  says 
tradition,  so  say  too  the  written  and  printed  family  records,  the 
fine  monuments  in  the  chancel  of  Sandyfield  Church,  and  more 
than  one  tombstone  in  the  yew-shaded  church-yard, — have  dis- 
played a  disquieting  incapacity  for  living  to  the  permitted 
"  threescore  years  and  ten,"  let  alone  fourscore,  and  dying  de- 
cently, in  ordinary,  commonplace  fashion,  in  their  beds. 
Mention  is  made  of  casualties  surprising  in  number  and  vari- 
ety ;  and  not  always,  it  must  be  owned,  to  the  moral  credit  of 
those  who  suffered  them.  It  is  told  how  Sir  Thomas,  grand- 
son of  Sir  Denzil,  died  miserably  of  gangrene,  caused  by  a  tear 
in  the  arm  from  the  antler  of  a  wounded  buck.  How  his 
nephew  Zachary — who  succeeded  him — was  stabbed  during  a 
drunken  brawl  in  an  eating-house  in  the  Strand.  How  the 
brother  of  the  said  Zachary,  a  gallant  young  soldier,  was  killed 
at  the  battle  of  Ramillies  in  1706.  Dueling,  lightning  during 
a  summer  storm,  even  the  blue-brown  waters  of  the  Brock- 
hurst  Lake  in  turn  claim  a  victim.  Later  it  is  told  how  a 
second  Sir  Denzil,  after  hard  fighting  to  save  his  purse,  was 
shot  by  highwaymen  on  Bagshot  Heath,  when  riding  with  a 
couple  of  servants — not  notably  distinguished,  as  it  would  ap- 
pear, for  personal  valour — from  Brockhurst  up  to  town. 

Lastly  comes  Courtney  Calmady,  who,  living  in  excellent 
repute  until  close  upon  sixty,  seemed  destined  by  Providence 
to  break  the  evil  chain  of  the  family  fate.  But  he  too  goes 
the  way  of  all  flesh,  suddenly  enough,  after  a  long  run  with  the 
hounds,  owing  to  the  opening  of  a  wound,  received  when  he 
was  little  more  than  a  lad,  at  the  taking  of  Frenchtown  under 
General  Proctor,  during  the  second  American  war.  So  he  too 
died,  and  they  buried  him  with  much  honest  mourning,  as  be- 
fittod  so  kindly  and  honourable  a  gentleman ;  and  his  son 
Richard — of  whom  more  hereafter — reigned  in  his  stead. 


THE  CLOWN 


CHAPTER  II 

GIVING    THE     VERY     EARLIEST    INFORMATION    OBTAINABLE    OF 
THE    HERO    OF    THIS    BOOK 

TT  happened  In  this  way,  towards  the  end  of  August,  1842. 
■*'  In  the  gray  of  the  summer  evening,  as  the  sunset  faded 
and  the  twilight  gathered,  spreading  itself  tenderly  over  the 
pastures  and  corn-fields, — over  the  purple-green  glooms  of  the 
fir  forest — over  the  open  moors,  whose  surface  is  scored  for 
miles  by  the  turf-slane  of  the  cottager  and  squatter — over  the 
clear  brown  streams  that  trickle  out  of  the  pink  and  emerald 
mosses  of  the  peat-bogs,  and  gain  volume  and  vigour  as  they 
sparkle  away  by  woodside,  and  green-lane,  and  village  street — 
and  over  those  secret,  bosky  places,  in  the  heart  of  the  great 
common-lands,  where  the  smooth,  white  stems  and  glossy  foli- 
age of  the  self-sown  hollies  spring  up  between  the  roots  of  the 
beech  trees,  where  plovers  cry,  and  stoat  and  weazel  lurk  and 
scamper,  while  the  old  poacher's  lean,  ill-favoured,  rusty- 
coloured  lurcher  picks  up  a  shrieking  hare,  and  where  wan- 
dering bands  of  gypsies — those  lithe,  onyx-eyed  children  of  the 
magic  East — still  pitch  their  dirty,  little,  fungus-like  tents 
around  the  camp-fire, — as  the  sunset  died  and  the  twilight  thus 
softly  widened  and  deepened.  Lady  Calmady  found  herself,  for 
the  first  time  during  all  the  long  summer  day,  alone. 

For  though  no  royd  personage  had  graced  the  occasion  with 
his  presence,  nor  had  bears  suft^ered  martyrdom  to  promote 
questionably  amiable  mirth,  Brockhurst,  during  the  past  week, 
had  witnessed  a  series  of  festivities  hardly  inferior  to  those 
which  marked  Sir  Denzil's  historic  house-warming.  Young 
Sir  Richard  Calmady  had  brought  home  his  bride,  and  it  was 
but  fitting  the  whole  countryside  should  see  her.  So  all  and 
sundry  received  generous  entertainment  according  to  their  de- 
gree.— Labourers,  tenants,  school-children.  Weary  old-age 
from  Pennygreen  poorhouse  taking  its  pleasure  of  cakes  andt 
ale  half  suspiciously  in  the  broad  sunshine.  The  leading  shop- 
keepers of  Westchurch  and  their  humbler  brethren  from  Farley^ 


8'  SIR  RICHARD  CALMAi^r  , 

Row.  All  the  country  gentry  too.  Lord  and  Lady  Fallow* 
feild  and  a  goodly  company  from  Whitney  Park,  Lord  Denier 
and  a  large  contingent  from  Grimshott  Place,  the  Cathcarts 
of  Newlands,  and  many  more  persons  of  undoubted  conse- 
quence— specially  perhaps  in  their  own  eyes. 

Not  to  mention  a  small  army  of  local  clergy — who  ever 
display  a  touching  alacrity  in  attending  festivals,  even  those 
of  a  secular  character — with  camp-followers,  in  the  form  of 
wives  and  families,  galore. 

And  now,  at  last,  all  was  over, — balls,  sports,  theatricals, 
dinners, — the  last  in  the  case  of  the  labourers,  .with  the  un- 
lovely adjunct  of  an  ox  roasted  whole.  Even  the  final  garden- 
party,  designed  to  include  such  persons  as  it  was,  socially 
speaking,  a  trifle  difficult  to  place — Image,  owner  of  the  big 
Shotover  brewery,  for  instance,  who  was  shouldering  his  way 
so  vigorously  towards  fortune  and  a  seat  on  the  bench  of 
magistrates ;  the  younger  members  of  the  firm  of  Goteway  & 
Fox,  Solicitors  of  Westchurch  ;  Goodall,  the  Methodist  miller 
from  Parson's  Holt,  and  certain  sporting  yeoman  farmers  with 
their  comely  womankind — even  this  final  entertainment,  with 
all  its  small  triumphs  and  heart-burnings,  flutterings  of  youth- 
ful inexperience,  aspirations,  condescensions,  had  gone,  like 
the  rest  of  the  week's  junketings,  to  swell  the  sum  of  things 
accomplished,  of  all  that  which  is  past  and  done  with,  and 
will  never  come  again. 

Fully  an  hour  ago,  Dr.  Knott,  under  plea  of  waiting  cases, 
bad  hitched  his  ungainly,  thick-set  figure  into  his  high  gig. 

*'  Plenty  of  fine  folks,  eh,  Timothy  ?  "  he  said  to  the  ferret- 
faced  groom  beside  him,  as  he  gathered  up  the  reins  ;  and  the 
hrown  mare,  knowing  the  hand  on  her  mouth,  laid  herself  out 
to  her  work.  "  Handsome  young  couple  as  anybody  need 
Wish  to  see.  Not  much  business  doing  there  for  me,  I  fancy, 
unless  it  lies  in  the  nursery  line." 

*' Say  those  Brockhurst  folks  mostly  dies  airly,  though,"  re- 
marked Timothy,  with  praiseworthy  effort  at  professional  en- 
couragement. 

"  Eh  !  so  you've  heard  that  story  too,  have  you  ?  " — and 
John  Knott  drew  the  lash  gently  across  the  hollow  of  the 
jnare's  back. 

"  This  'ere  Sir  Richard's  the  third  baronet  I've  a-seen,  and 
%  bean't  so  very  old  neither," 


^^'   THE  CLOWN  9^^ 

The  doctor  looked  dovvn  at  the  spare  little  man  with  a  cer- 
tain snarling  aftectlon,  as  he  said : — "  Oh  no  !  I'm  not  kept 
awake  o*  nights  by  the  fear  of  losing  you,  Timothy.  Your 
serviceable  old  carcass'll  hang  together  for  a  good  while  yet." — 
Then  his  rough  eyebrows  drdw  into  a  line  and  he  stared 
thoughtfully  down  the  long  space  of  the  clean  gravel  road  un- 
der the  meetino;  branches  of  the  lime  trees. 

The  Whitney  char  a  bancs  had  driven  ofF  but  a  few  mlnute^.^ 
later,  to  the  admiration  of  all  beholders ;  yet  not,  it  must  be  "^ 
admitted,  without  a  measure  of  inward  perturbation  on  the  part 
of  that  noble  charioteer,  Lord  Fallowfeild.  Her  Ladyship  was 
constitutionally  timid,  and  he  was  none  too  sure  of  the  be- 
haviour of  his  leaders  in  face  of  the  string  of  very  miscellane- 
ous vehicles  waiting  to  take  up.  However,  the  illustrious 
party  happily  got  off  without  any  occasion  for  Lady  Fallow- 
feild's  screaming.  Then  the  ardour  of  departure  became  uni- 
versal, and  in  broken  procession  the  many  carriages,  phaetons, 
gigs,  traps,  pony-chaises  streamed  away  from  Brockhurst 
House,  north,  south,  east  and  west. 

Lady  Calmady  had  bidden  her  guests  farewell  at  the  side- 
door  opening  on  to  the  terrace,  before  they  passed  through  the 
house  to  the  main  entrance  in  the  south  front.  Last  to  go,  as 
he  had  been  first  to  come,  was  that  worthy  person,  Thomas 
Caryll,  the  rector  of  Sandyfield.  Mild,  white-haired,  deficient 
in  chin,  he  had  a  natural  leaning  towards  women  in  general,  and 
towards  those  of  the  upper  classes  in  particular.  Katherine 
Calmady's  radiant  youth,  her  courtesy,  her  undeniable  air  of 
distinction,  and  a  certain  gracious  gaiety  which  belonged  to 
her,  had,  combined  with  unaccustomed  indulgence  in  claret 
cup,  gone  far  to  turn  the  good  man's  head  during  the  after- 
noon. Regardless  of  the  slightly  flustered  remonstrances  of 
his  wife  and  daughters,  he  lingered,  expending  himself  in  in- 
nocently confused  compliment,  supplemented  by  prophecies 
regarding  the  blessings  destined  to  descend  upon  Brockhurst 
and  the  mother  parish  of  Sandyfield  in  virtue  of  Lady  Cal- 
mady's advent. 

But  at  length  he  also  was  gone.  Katherine  waited,  her 
eyes  full  of  laughter,  until  Mr.  Caryll's  footsteps  died  away  on 
the  stone  quarries  of  the  great  hall  within.  Then  she  gently 
drew  the  heavy  door  to,  and  stepped  out  on  to  the  centre  of. 
the  terrace.     The  grass  slopes  of  the  park — dotted  with  thorn 


10  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

trees  and  beds  of  bracken, — the  lime  avenue  running  along 
the  ridge  of  the  hill,  the  ragged  edge  of  the  fir  forest  to  the 
east,  and  the  mass  of  the  house,  all  these  were  softened  to  a 
vagueness — as  the  landscape  in  a  dream — by  the  deepening 
twilight.  An  immense  repose  pervaded  the  whole  scene.  It 
affected  Katherine  to  a  certain  seriousness.  Her  social  ex- 
citements and  responsibilities,  the  undoubted  success  that  had 
attended  her  maiden  essay  as  hostess  during  the  past  week, 
shrank  to  trivial  proportions.  Another  order  of  emotion  arose 
in  her.  She  became  sensible  of  a  necessity  to  take  counsel 
with  herself. 

She  moved  slowly  along  the  terrace  ;  paused  in  the  arcaded 
garden-hall  at  the  end  of  it — the  carven  stone  benches  and 
tables  of  which  showed  somewhat  ghostly  in  the  dimness — to 
put  off  her  bonnet  and  push  back  the  lace  scarf  from  her 
shoulders.  An  increasing  solemnity  was  upon  her.  There 
were  things  to  think  of,  things  deep  and  strange.  She  must 
needs  place  them,  make  an  effort,  anyhow,  to  do  so.  And,  in 
face  of  this  necessity,  came  an  instinct  to  rid  herself  of  all 
small  impeding  conventionalities,  even  in  the  matter  of  dress. 
For  there  was  in  Katherine  that  inherent  desire  of  harmony 
with  her  surroundings,  that  natural  sense  of  fitness,  which — 
given  certain  technical  aptitudes — goes  to  make  a  great  dra- 
matic artist.  But,  since  in  her  case,  such  technical  aptitudes 
were  either  non-existent,  or  wholly  in  abeyance,  it  followed 
that,  save  in  nice  questions  of  private  honour,  she  was  quite 
the  least  self-conscious  and  self-critical  of  human  beings. 
Now,  as  she  passed  out  under  the  archway  on  to  the  square 
lawn  of  the  troco-ground,  bare-headed,  in  her  pale  dress,  a 
sweet  seriousness  filling  all  her  mind,  even  as  the  sweet  sum- 
mer twilight  filled  all  the  valley  and  veiled  the  gleaming  sur- 
face of  the  Long  Water  far  below,  she  felt  wholly  in  sympathy 
with  the  aspect  and  sentiment  of  the  place.  Indeed  it  ap- 
peared to  her,  just  then,  that  the  four  months  of  her  marriage, 
the  five  months  of  her  engagement,  even  the  twenty-two 
years  which  made  up  all  the  sum  of  her  earthly  living,  were  a 
prelude  merely  to  the  present  hour  and  to  that  which  lay  im- 
mediately ahead. 

Yet  the  prelude  had,  in  truth,  been  a  pretty  enough  piece 
of  music.  Katherine's  experience  had  but  few  black  patches 
in  it  as  yet.      Furnished  with  a  fair  and  healthy  body,  with 


THE  CLOWN  II 

fine  breeding,  with  a  character  in  which  the  pride  and  grit  of 
her  North  Country  ancestry  was  tempered  by  the  poetic  in- 
stincts and  quick  wit  which  came  to  her  with  her  mother's 
Irish  blood,  Katherine  Ormiston  started  as  well  furnished  as 
most  to  play  the  great  game  that  all  are  bound  to  play,  whether 
they  will  or  no,  with  fate.  Mrs.  Ormiston,  still  young  and 
beloved,  had  died  in  bringing  this,  her  only  daughter,  into  the 
world ;  and  her  husband  had  looked  somewhat  coldly  upon 
the  poor  baby  in  consequence.  There  was  an  almost  mis- 
anthropic vein  in  the  autocratic  land-owner  and  iron-master. 
He  had  three  sons  already,  and  therefore  found  but  little  use 
for  this  woman-child.  So,  while  pluming  himself  on  his  clear 
judgment  and  unswerving  reason,  he  resented,  most  unreason- 
ably, her  birth,  since  it  took  his  wife  from  him.  Such  is  the 
irony  of  things,  forever  touching  man  on  the  raw,  proving  his 
weakness  in  that  he  holds  his  strongest  point !  In  point  of 
fact,  however,  Katherine  suffered  but  slightly  from  the  poor 
welcome  that  greeted  her  advent  in  the  gray,  many-towered 
house  upon  the  Yorkshire  coast.  For  her  great-aunt,  Mrs. 
St.  Quentin,  speedily  gathered  the  small  creature  into  her  still 
beautiful  arms,  and  lavished  upon  it  both  tenderness  and 
wealth,  along — as  it  grew  to  a  companionable  age — with  the 
wisdom  of  a  mind  ripened  by  wide  acquaintance  with  men 
and  with  public  affairs.  Mrs.  St.  Quentin — famous  in  Dub- 
lin, London,  Paris,  as  a  beauty  and  a  wit — had  passed  her 
early  womanhood  amid  the  tumult  of  great  events.  She  had 
witnessed  the  horrors  of  the  Terror,  the  splendid  amazements 
of  the  First  Empire  ;  and  could  still  count  among  her  friends 
and  correspondents,  politicians  and  literary  men  of  no  mean 
standing.  A  legend  obtains  that  Lord  Byron  sighed  for  her — 
and  in  vain.  For,  as  Katherine  came  to  know  later,  this 
woman  had  loved  once,  daringly,  finally,  yet  without  scandal 
— though  the  name  of  him  whom  she  loved  (and  who  loved 
her)  was  not,  it  must  be  owned,  St.  Quentin.  And  perhaps 
it  was  just  this,  this  hidden  and  somewhat  tragic  romance, 
which  kept  her  so  young,  so  fresh ;  kept  her  unworldly, 
though  moving  so  freely  in  the  world ;  had  given  hel*  that  ex- 
quisite sense  of  relative  values  and  that  knowledge  of  the 
heart,  which  leads,  as  the  divine  Plato  has  testified,  to  the 
highest  and  most  reconciling  philosophy. 

Thus,  the  delicately  brilliant  old  lady  and  the  radiant  young 


12  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

lady  lived  together  delightfully  enough,  spending  their  winters 
in  Paris  in  a  pretty  apartment  in  the  rue  de  Rennes — shared 
with  one  Mademoiselle  de  Mirancourt,  whose  friendship  with 
Mrs.  St.  Quentin  dated  from  their  schooldays  at  the  convent 
of  the  Sacre  Coeur.  Spring  and  autumn  found  Katherine  and 
her  great-aunt  in  London.  While,  in  summer,  there  was  al- 
ways a  long  visit  to  Ormiston  Castle,  looking  out  from  the 
cliff  edge  upon  the  restless  North  Sea.  Lovers  came  in  due 
course.  For  over  and  above  its  own  shapeliness — which 
surely  was  reason  enough — Katherine's  hand  was  well  worth 
winning  from  the  worldly  point  of  view.  She  would  have 
money  ;  and  Mrs.  St.  Quentin's  influence  would  count  for 
much  in  the  case  of  a  great-nephew-by-marriage  who  aspired 
to  a  parliamentary  or  diplomatic  career.  But  the  lovers  also- 
went,  for  Katherine  asked  a  great  deal — not  so  much  of  them^ 
perhaps,  as  of  herself.  She  nad  taken  an  idea,  somehow,  that 
marriage,  to  be  in  the  least  satisfactory,  must  be  based  on 
love  ;  and  that  love  worth  the  name  is  an  essentially  two-sided 
business.  Indirectly  the  girl  had  learnt  much  on  this  difficult 
subject  from  her  great-aunt ;  and  with  characteristic  directness 
had  agreed  with  herself  to  wait  till  her  heart  was  touched,  if 
she  waited  a  lifetime — though  of  exactly  in  what  either  her 
heart,  or  the  touching  of  it,  consisted  she  was  deliciously  in- 
nocent as  yet. 

And  then,  in  the  summer  of  1841,  Sir  Richard  Calmady 
came  to  Ormiston.  He  and  her  brother  Roger  had  been  at 
Eton  together.  Katherine  remembered  him,  years  ago,  as  a 
well-bred  and  courteously  contemptuous  schoolboy,  upon 
whose  superior  mind,  small  female  creatures — busy  about 
dolls,  and  victims  of  the  athletic  restrictions  imposed  by  petti- 
coats— made  but  slight  impression.  Latterly  Sir  Richard'^s 
name  had  come  to  be  one  to  conjure  with  in  racing  circles^ 
thanks  to  the  performances  of  certain  horses  bred  and  trained 
at  the  Brockhurst  stables  ;  though  some  critics,  it  is  true,  de- 
plored his  tendency  to  neglect  the  older  and  more  legitimate 
sport  of  flat-racing  in  favour  of  steeple-chasing.  It  was  saitl 
he  aspired  to  rival  the  long  list  of  victories  achieved  by  Mr. 
Elmore's  Gaylad  and  Lottery,  and  the  successes  of  Peter 
Simple  the  famous  gray.  This  much  Katherine  had  heard 
of  him  from  her  brother.  And  having  her  haughty  turns — as 
what  charming  woman  has  not  ? — set  him  down  as  probably  a 


THE  CLOWN  13 

rough  sort  of  person,  notwithstanding  his  weahh  and  good 
connections,  a  kind  of  gentleman  jockey,  upon  whom  it  would 
be  easy  to  take  a  measure  of  pretty  revenge  for  his  boyish  in- 
difference to  her  existence.  But  the  meeting,  and  the  young 
man,  alike,  turned  out  quite  other  than  she  had  anticipated. 
For  s^e  found  a  person  as  well  furnished  in  all  polite  and 
social  arts  as  herself,  with  no  flavour  of  the  stable  about  him. 
She  had  reckoned  on  one  whose  scholarship  would  carry  him 
no  further  than  a  few  stock  quotations  from  Horace,  and 
whose  knowledge  of  art  would  begin  and  end  with  a  portrait 
of  himself  presented  by  the  members  of  a  local  hunt.  And  it 
was  a  little  surprising — possibly  a  little  mortifying  to  her — to 
hear  him  talking  over  obscure  passages  in  Spencer's  Fcsr'ie 
^eene  with  Mrs.  St.  Quentin,  before  the  end  of  the  dinner,  and 
nicely  apprising  the  relative  merits  of  the  water-colour  sketches 
by  Turner,  that  hung  on  either  side  the  drawing-room  fireplace. 
Nor  did  Katherine's  surprises  end  here.  An  unaccount- 
able something  was  taking  place  within  her,  that  opened  up  a 
whole  new  range  of  emotion.  She,  the  least  moody  of  young 
women,  had  strange  fluctuations  of  temper,  finding  herself 
buoyantly  happy  one  hour,  the  next  pensive,  filled  with 
timidity  and  self-distrust — not  to  mention  the  little  fits  of 
gusty  anger,  and  purposeless  jealousy  which  took  her,  hurting 
her  pride  shrewdly.  She  grew  anxiously  solicitous  as  to  her 
personal  appearance.  This  dress  would  not  please  her  nor 
that.  The  image  of  her  charming  oval  face  and  well-set  head 
ceased  to  satisfy  her.  Surely  a  woman's  hair  should  be  either 
positively  blond  or  black,  not  this  indeterminate  brown,  with 
warm  lights  in  it  ?  She  feared  her  mouth  was  not  small 
enough,  the  lips  too  full  and  curved  for  prettiness.  She 
wished  her  eyes  less  given  to  change,  under  their  dark  lashes, 
from  clear  gray-blue  to  a  nameless  colour  like  the  gloom  of 
the  pools  of  a  woodland  stream,  as  her  feelings  changed  from 
gladness  to  distress.  She  feared  her  complexion  was  too 
bright,  and  then  not  bright  enough.  And,  all  the  while,  a 
certain  shame  possessed  her  that  she  should  care  at  all  about 
such  trivial  matters  ;  for  life  had  grown  suddenly  larger  and 
more  august.  Books  she  had  read,  faces  she  had  watched  a 
hundred  times,  the  vast  horizon  looking  eastward  over  the  un- 
quiet sea,  all  these  gained  a  new  value  and  meaning  which  at 
once  enthralled  and  agitated  her  thought. 


i^,  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

i  Sir  Richard  Calmady  stayed  a  fortnight  at  Ormiston.  And 
the  two  ladies  crossed  to  Paris  earlier,  that  autumn,  than  was 
their  custom.  Katherine  was  not  in  her  usual  good  healthy 
and  Mrs.  St.  Quentin  desired  change  of  air  and  scene  on  her 
account.  She  took  Mademoiselle  de  Mirancourt  into  her 
confidence,  hinting  at  causes  for  her  restlessness  and  way- 
ward little  humours  unacknowledged  by  the  girl  herself. 
Then  the  two  elder  women  wrapped  Katherine  about  with  an 
atmosphere  of — if  possible — deeper  tenderness  than  before  ; 
mingling  sentiment  with  their  gaiety,  and  gaiety  with  their 
sentiment,  and  the  delicate  respect  which  refrains  from  ques- 
tion with  both. 

One  keenly  bright  October  afternoon  Richard  Calmady 
called  in  the  rue  de  Rennes.  It  appeared  he  had  come  to 
Paris  with  the  intention  of  remaining  there  for  an  indefinite 
period.  He  called  again  and  yet  again,  making  himself 
charming — a  touch  of  deference  tempering  his  natural  suavitv 
— alike  to  his  hostesses  and  to  such  of  their  guests  as  he  hap- 
pened to  meet.  It  was  the  fashion  of  fifty  years  ago  to  con- 
duct affairs,  even  those  of  the  heart,  with  a  dignified  absence 
of  precipitation.  The  weeks  passed,  while  Sir  Richard  be- 
came increasingly  welcome  in  some  of  the  very  best  houses  in 
Paris. — And  Katherine  ?  It  must  be  owned  Katherine  was 
not  without  some  heartaches,  which  she  proudly  tried  to  deny 
to  herself  and  conceal  from  others.  But  eventually — it  was 
on  the  morning  after  the  ball  at  the  British  Embassy — the 
man  spoke  and  the  maid  answered,  and  the  old  order  changed, 
giving  place  to  new  in  the  daily  life  of  the  pretty  apartment 
of  the  rue  de  Rennes. 

About  five  months  later  the  marriage  took  place  in  London ; 
and  Sir  Richard  and  Lady  Calmady  started  forth  on  a  wedding 
journey  of  the  old-fashioned  type.  They  traveled  up  the  Rhine, 
and  posted,  all  in  the  delicious,  early  summer  weather,  through 
Northern  Italy,  as  far  as  Florence.  They  returned  by  Paris, 
And  there,  Mrs.  St.  Quentin  watching — in  almost  painful  anx- 
.'ety — to  see  how  it  fared  with  her  recovered  darling,  was 
wholly  satisfied,  and  gave  thanks.  For  she  perceived  that,  in 
this  case,  at  least,  marriage  was  no  legal,  conventional  con- 
nection leaving  the  heart  emptier  than  it  found  it — the  barter- 
ing of  precious  freedom  for  a  joyless  bondage,  an  obligation, 
weary  in  the  present^  and  hopeless  of  alleviation  in  the  future. 


THE  CLOWN  15 

save  by  the  reaching  of  that  far-distant,  heavenly  country, 
concerning  which  it  is  comfortably  assured  us  "  that  there  they 
neither  marry  nor  are  given  in  marriage."  For  the  Katherine 
who  came  back  to  her  was  at  once  the  same,  and  yet  another, 
Katherine — one  who  carried  her  head  more  proudly  and 
stepped  as  though  she  was  mistress  of  the  whole  fair  earth,  but 
whose  merry  wit  had  lost  its  little  edge  of  sarcasm,  whose 
sympathy  was  quicker  and  more  instinctive,  whose  voice  had 
taken  fuller  and  more  caressing  tones,  and  in  whose  sweet  eyes 
sat  a  steady  content  good  to  see.  And  then,  suddenly,  Mrs. 
St.  Quentin  began  to  feel  her  age  as  she  had  never^  con- 
sciously, felt  it  before ;  and  to  be  very  willing  to  fold  her 
hands  and  recite  her  Nunc  Dimittis.  For,  in  looking  on  the 
faces  of  the  bride  and  bridegroom,  she  had  looked  once  again 
on  the  face  of  Love  itself,  and  had  stood  within  the  court  of  the 
temple  of  that  Uranian  Venus  whose  unsullied  glory  is  secure 
here  and  hereafter,  since  to  her  it  is  given  to  discover  to  hef 
worshippers  the  innermost  secret  of  existence,  thereby  fencing 
them  forever  against  the  plagues  of  change,  delusion,  and 
decay.  Love  began  gently  to  loosen  the  cords  of  life,  and  to 
draw  Lucia  St.  Quentin  home — home  to  that  dear  dwelling- 
place  which,  as  we  fondly  trust — since  God  Himself  is  Love 
— is  reserved  for  all  true  lovers  beyond  the  grave  and  Gates 
of  Death.  Thus  one  flower  falls  as  another  opens ;  and  to- 
day, however  sweet,  is  only  won  across  the  corpse  of 
yesterday. 

And  it  was  some  perception  of  just  this — the  ceaseless  push 
of  event  following  on  event,  the  ceaseless  push  of  the  yet  un- 
born struggling  to  force  the  doors  of  life — which  moved  Kath- 
erine to  seriousness,  as  she  stood  alone  on  the  smooth  expanse 
of  the  troco-ground,  in  the  soft,  all-covering  twilight,  at  the 
close  of  the  day's  hospitality. 

On  her  right  the  house,  and  its  delicate  twisted  chimneys, 
showed  dark  against  the  fading  rose  of  the  western  sky.  The 
air,  rich  with  the  fragrance  of  the  red-walled  gardens  behind 
her, — with  the  scent  of  jasmine,  heliotrope  and  clove  carna- 
tions, ladies-lilies  and  mignonette, — was  stirred,  now  and 
again,  by  wandering  winds,  cool  from  the  spaces  of  the  open 
moors.  While,  as  the  last  roll  of  departing  wheels  died  out 
along  the  avenues,  the  voices  of  the  woodland  began  to  reas- 
sert   themselves.     Wild-fowl    called    from    the    alder-fringed 


i6  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

Long  Water.  Night-hawks  churred  as  they  beat  on  noiseless 
wings  above  the  beds  of  bramble  and  bracken.  A  cock 
pheasant  made  a  most  admired  stir  and  keckling  in  seeing  his- 
wife  and  brood  to  roost  on  the  branches  of  one  of  King; 
James's  age-old  Scotch  firs. 

And  this  sense  of  nature  coming  back  to  claim  her  own,  to 
make  known  her  eternal  supremacy,  now  that  the  fret  of 
man's  little  pleasuring  had  past,  was  very  grateful  to  Katherine 
Calmady.  Her  soul  cried  out  to  be  free,  for  a  time,  to  con- 
template, to  fully  apprehend  and  measure  its  own  happiness. 
It  needed  to  stand  aside,  so  that  the  love  given,  and  all  given 
with  that  love — even  these  matters  of  house  and  gardens,  of 
men-servants  and  maid-servants,  of  broad  acres,  all  the  poetry, 
in  short,  of  great  possessions — might  be  seen  in  perspective. 
For  Katherine  had  that  necessity — in  part  intellectual,  in  part 
practical,  and  common  to  all  who  possess  a  gift  for  rule — to 
resist  the  confusing  importunity  of  detail,  and  to  grasp  intelli- 
gently the  whole,  which  alone  gives  to  detail  coherence  and 
purpose.  Her  mind  was  not  one — perhaps  unhappily — which 
is  contented  to  merely  play  with  bricks,  but  demands  the  plan 
of  the  building  into  which  those  bricks  should  grow.  And  she 
wanted,  just  now,  to  lay  hold  of  the  plan  of  the  fair  building 
of  her  own  life.  And  to  this  end  the  solitude,  the  evening 
quiet,  the  restful  unrest  of  the  forest  and  its  wild  creatures 
should  surely  have  ministered  ?  She  moved  forward  and  sat 
on  the  broad  stone  balustrade  which,  topping  the  buttressed 
masonry  that  supports  it  above  the  long  downward  grass  slope 
of  the  park,  encloses  the  troco-ground  on  the  south. 

The  landscape  lay  drowned  in  the  mystery  of  the  summer 
night.  And  Katherine,  looking  out  into  it,  tried  to  think 
clearly,  tried  to  range  the  many  new  experiences  of  the  last 
months  and  to  reckon  with  them.  But  her  brain  refused  ta 
work  obediently  to  her  will.  She  felt  strangely  hurried  for  all 
the  surrounding  quiet. 

One  train  of  thought,  which  she  had  been  busy  enough  by 
day  and  honestly  sleepy  enough  at  night,  to  keep  at  arm's 
length  during  this  time  of  home-coming  and  entertaining,  now 
invaded  and  possessed  her  mind — filling  it  at  once  with  a  new 
and  overwhelming  movement  of  tenderness,  yet  for  all  her 
high  courage  with  a  certain  fear.  She  cried  out  for  a  little 
space  of  waiting,  a  little  space  in  which  to  take  breath.     She- 


THE  CLOWN  17 

wanted  to  pause,  here  in  the  fulness  of  her  Content.  But  no 
pause  was  granted  her.  She  was  so  happy,  she  asked  nothing 
more.  But  something  more  was  forced  wpon  her.  And  so  it 
happened  that,  in  realising  the  ceaseless  push  of  event  on 
event,  the  ceaseless  dying  of  dear  to-day  in  the  service  of  un- 
born to-morrow,  her  gentle  seriousness  touched  on  regret. 

How  long  she  remained  lost  in  such  pensive  reflections 
Lady  Calmady  could  not  have  said.  Suddenly  the  terrace 
door  slammed.  A  moment  later  a  man's  footsteps  echoed 
across  the  flags  of  the  garden-hall. 

"  Katherine,"  Richard  Calmady  called,  somewhat  impera- 
tively, "  Katherine,  are  you  there  ?  '* 

She  turned  and  stood  watching  him  as  he  came  rapidly  across 
the  turf. 

"  Yes,  I  am  here,"  she  cried.     "  Do  you  want  me  ?  " 

"  Do  I  want  you ?  "  he  answered  curtly.  "Don't  I  always 
want  you  ? " 

A  little  sob  rose  in  her  throat — she  knew  not  why — for,* 
hearing  the  tone  of  his  voice,  her  sadness  was  strangely 
assuaged. 

"  I  could  not  find  you,"  he  went  on.  "  And  I  got  into  an 
absurd  state  of  panic — sent  Roger  in  one  direction,  and  Julius 
in  another,  to  look  for  you." 

'^  Whereupon  Roger,  probably,  posted  down  to  the  stables, 
and  Julius  up  to  the  chapel  to  search.  Where  the  heart 
dwells  there  the  feet  follow.  Meanwhile,  you  came  straight 
here  and  found  me  yourself." 

^'  I  might  have  known  I  should  do  that." 

The  importunate  thought  returned  upon  Katherine  and 
with  it  a  touch  of  her  late  melancholy. 

"  Ah  !  one  knows  nothing  for  certain  when  one  is  fright- 
ened," she  said.  She  moved  closer  to  him,  holding  out  her 
hand.  "  Here,"  she  continued,  "you  are  a  little  too  shadowy, 
too  unsubstantial,  in  this  light,  Dick.  I  would  rather  make 
more  sure  of  your  presence." 

Richard  Calmady  laughed  very  gently.  Then  the  two  stood 
silent,  looking  out  over  the  dim  valley,  hand  in  hand.  The 
scent  of  the  gardens  was  about  them.  Moving  lights  showed 
through  the  many  windows  of  the  great  house.  The  water- 
fowl called  sleepily.  The  churring  of  the  night-hawks  was 
continuous,  soothing  as  the  hum  of  a  spinning-wheel.     Some- 


i8  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

where,  away  in  the  Warren,  a  fox  barked.  In  the  eastern 
sky,  the  young  moon  began  to  climb  above  the  ragged  edge  of 
the  firs.  When  they  spoke  again  it  was  very  simply,  in 
broken  sentences,  as  children  speak.  The  poetry  of  their  re- 
lation to  one  another  and  the  scene  about  them  were  too  full 
of  meaning,  too  lovely,  to  call  for  polish  of  rhetoric,  or  point- 
ing by  epigram. 

"  Tell  me,"  Katherine  said,  "  were  you  satisfied  ?  Did  I 
entertain  your  people  prettily  ?  " 

"  Prettily  ?  You  entertained  them  as  they  had  never  been 
entertained  before — like  a  queen — and  they  knew  it.  But 
why  did  you  stay  out  here  alone  ?  " 

"  To  think — and  to  look  at  Brockhurst." 

"  Yes,  it's  worth  looking  at  now,"  he  said.  "  It  was  like  a 
body  wanting  a  soul  till  you  came."  / 

"  But  you  loved  it  ?  "   Katherine  reasoned. 

"  Oh  yes !  because  I  believed  the  soul  would  come  some 
day.  Brockhurst,  and  the  horses,  and  the  books,  all  helped  to 
make  the  time  pass  while  I  was  waiting." 

"Waiting  for  what  ?  " 

"  Why  for  you,  of  course,  you  dear,  silly  sweet.  Haven't 
I  always  been  waiting  for  you — just  precisely  and  wholly  you,, 
nothing  more  or  less — all  through  my  life,  all  through  all  con- 
ceivable and  inconceivable  lives,  since  before  the  world 
began  ?  " 

Katherine's  breath  came  with  a  fluttering  sigh.  She  let 
her  head  fall  back  against  his  shoulder.  Her  eyes  closed  in- 
voluntarily. She  loved  these  fond  exaggerations — as  what 
woman  does  not  who  has  had  the  good  fortune  to  hear  them  ? 
They  pierced  her  with  a  delicious  pain  ;  and — perhaps  there- 
fore, perhaps  not  unwisely — she  believed  them  true. 

"  Are  you  tired  ?  "  he  asked  presently. 

Katherine  looked  up  smiling,  and  shook  her  head. 

^'  Not  too  tired  to  be  up  early  to-morrow  morning  and  come 
out  with  me  to  see  the  horses  galloped  ?  Sultan  will  give  you 
no  trouble.  He  is  well-seasoned  and  merely  looks  on  at  things 
in  general  with  intelligent  interest,  goes  like  a  lamb  and  stands 
like  a  rock." 

While  her  husband  was  speaking  Katherine  straightened 
herself  up,  and  moved  a  little  from  him  though  still  holding  his 
hand^^     Her  languor  passed,  and  her  eyes  grew  large  and  black* 


THE  CLOWN  iq 

"  I  think,  perhaps,  I  had  better  not  go  to-morrow,  Dick," 
"she  said  slowly. 

"  Ah  !  you  are  tired,  you  poor  dear.  No  wonder,  after  the 
week's  work  you  have  had.  Another  day  will  do  just  as  well. 
Only  I  want  you  to  come  out  sometimes  in  the  first  blush  of 
the  morning,  before  the  day  has  had  time  to  grow  common- 
place, while  the  gossamers  are  still  hung  with  dew,  and  the 
mists  are  in  hollows,  and  the  horses  are  heady  from  the  fresh 
air  and  the  light.  You  will  like  it  all,  Kitty.  It  is  rather 
inspiring.  But  it  will  keep.  To-morrow  I'll  let  you  rest  in 
peace." 

"  Oh  no !  it  is  not  that,"  Katherine  said  quickly.  The 
importunate  thought  was  upon  her  again,  clamouring,  not 
only  to  be  recognised,  but  fairly  owned  to  and  permitted  to 
pass  the  doors  of  speech.  And  a  certain  modesty  made  her 
shrink  from  this.  To  know  something  in  the  secret  of  your 
own  heart,  or  to  tell  it,  thereby  making  it  a  hard  concrete  fact, 
outside  yourself,  over  which,  in  a  sense,  you  cease  to  have 
control,  are  two  such  very  different  matters !  Katherine 
trembled  on  the  edge  of  her  confession,  though  that  to  be 
confessed  was,  after  all,  but  the  natural  crown  of  her  love. 

"  I  think  I  ought  not  to  ride  now — for  a  time,  Dick."  All 
the  blood  rushed  into  her  face  and  throat,  and  then  ebbed, 
leaving  her  very  white  in  the  growing  darkness. — "  You  have 
given  me  a  child,"  she  said. 


CHAPTER  III 

TOUCHING    MATTERS    CLERICAL   AND    CONTROVERSIAL 

T)ROCKHURST  had  rarely  appeared  more  blessed  by 
spacious  sunshine  and  stately  cheerfulness  than  during 
the  remaining  weeks  of  that  summer.  A  spirit  of  unclouded 
serenity  possessed  the  place,  both  indoors  and  out.  If  rain 
fell,  it  was  only  at  night.  And  this,  as  so  much  else,  Julius 
March  noted  duly  in  his  diary. 

For  that  was  the  period  of  elaborate  private  chronicles, 
when  persons  of  intelligence  and  position  still  took  them- 
selves, their  doings  and  their  emotions  with  most  admired 


20  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

seriousness.  Natural  science,  the  great  leveler,  had  hardly 
stepped  in  as  yet.  Therefore  it  was,  that  already,  Julius's 
diary  ran  into  many  stout  manuscript  volumes  ;  each  in  turn 
soberly  but  richly  bound,  with  silver  clasp  and  lock  complete, 
so'soi^n  as  its  final  page  was  written.  Begun  when  he  first 
went '  up  to  Oxford,  some  thirteen  years  earlier,  it  formed  an 
intirnate  history  of  the  influences  of  the  Tractariap  Movement 
upon  ^scholarly  mind  and  delicately  spiritual  nature.  At  the 
commencement  of  his  Oxford  career  he  had  come  into  close 
relations  with  some  of  the  leaders  of  the  movement.  And  the 
conception  of  an  historic  church,  endowed  with  mystic 
powers — conveyed  through  an  unbroken  line  of  priests  from 
the  age  of  the  apostles — the  orderly  round  of  vigil,  fast,  and 
festival,  the  secret,  introspective  joys  of  penance  and  confes- 
sion, the  fascinations  of  the  strictly  religious  life,  as  set  be- 
fore him  in  eloquent  public  discourse  or  persuasive  private 
conversation, — had  combined  to  kindle  an  imagination  very 
insufficiently  satisfied  by  the  lean  spiritual  meats  offered  it 
during  an  Evangelical  childhood  and  youth.  Julius  yielded 
himself  up  to  his  instructors  with  passionate  self-abandon. 
He  took  orders,  and  remained  on  at  Oxford — being  a  fellow 
of  his  college — working  earnestly  for  the  cause  he  had  so  at 
heart.  Eventually  he  became  a  member  of  the  select  band  of 
disciples  that  dwelt,  uncomfortably,  supported  by  visions  of 
reactionary  reform  at  once  austere  and  beneficent,  in  the  range 
of  disused  stable  buildings  at  Littlemore. 

Of  the  storm  and  stress  of  this  religious  war,  its  triumphs, 
its  defeats,  its  many  agitations,  Julius's  diaries  told  with  a  deep, 
if  chastened,  enthusiasm.  His  was  a  singularly  pure  nature, 
unmoved  by  the  primitive  desires  which  usually  inflame  young 
blood.  Ideas  heated  him ;  while  the  lust  of  the  eye  and  the 
pride  of  life  left  him  almost  scornfully  cold.  He  strove 
earnestly,  of  course,  to  bring  the  flesh  into  subjection  to  the 
spirit  y  which  was,  calmly  considered,  a  slight  waste  of  time, 
:^ince  the  said  flesh  showed  the  least  possible  inclination  of  re- 
Volt.  The  earlier  diaries  contain  pathetic  exaggerations  of  the 
slightest  indiscretion.  Innocent  and  virtuous  persons  have 
ever  been  prone  to  such  little  manias  of  self-accusation ! 
Later,  the  flesh  did  assert  itself,  though  in  a  hardly  licentious 
manner.  Oxford  fogs  and  damp,  along  with  plain  living  and 
high  thinking,  acting  upon  a  constitution  naturally  far  fro^ 


^^*'  THE  CLOWN  21 

robust,  produced  a  commonplace  but  most  disabling  nemesis 
in  the  form  of  colds,  coughs,  and  chronic  asthma.  Julius  did 
not  greatly  care.  He  was  in  that  exalted  frame  of  mind  in 
which  martyrdom,  even  by  phthisis  or  bronchial  affections,  is 
immeasurably  preferable  to  no  martyrdom  at  all.  Perhaps 
fortunately  his  relations,  and  even  his  Oxford  friends,  took  a 
quite  other  view  of  the  matter,  and  insisted  upon  his  using  all 
legitimate  means  to  prolong  his  life. 

Julius  left  Oxford  with  intense  regret.  It  was  the  Holy 
City  of  the  Tractarian  Movement ;  and  at  this  moment  the 
progress  of  that  Movement  was  the  one  thing  worth  living 
for,  if  live  indeed  he  must.  He  went  forth  bewailing  his 
exile  and  enforced  idleness,  as  a  man  bewails  the  loss  of  the 
love  of  his  youth.  For  a  time  he  traveled  in  Italy  and  in  the 
south  of  France.  On  his  return  to  England  he  went  to  stay 
with  his  friend  and  cousin.  Sir  Richard  Calmady.  Brockhurst 
House  had  always  been  extremely  congenial  to  him.  Its  suites 
of  handsome  rooms,  the  inlaid  marble  chimneypieces  of  which 
reach  up  to  the  frieze  of  the  heavily  moulded  ceilings,  its  wide 
passages  and  stairways,  their  carved  balusters  and  newel-posts, 
the  treasures  of  its  library — now  overflowing  the  capacity  of 
the  two  rooms  originally  designed  for  them,  and  filling  ranges 
of  bookcases  between  the  bay  windows  of  the  Long  Gallery 
running  the  whole  length  of  the  first  floor  from  east  to  west, 
— the  chapel  in  the  southern  wing,  its  richly  furnished  altar 
and  the  glories  of  its  famous,  stained-glass  windows,  all  these 
were  very  grateful  to  his  taste.  While  the  light,  dry,  upland 
air  and  near  neighbourhood  of  the  fir  forest  eased  the  physical 
discomforts  from  which,  at  times,  he  still  suffered  shrewdly. 

He  found  the  atmosphere  of  the  place  both  soothing  and 
steadying.  And  of  precisely  this  he  stood  sorely  in  need  just, 
now.  For  it  must  be  admitted  that  a  change  had  come  overt; 
the  spirit  of  Julius  March's  great  ecclesiastical  dream.  Ab- 
sence from  Oxford  and  foreign  travel  had  tended  at  once  to 
widen  and  modify  his  thought.  He  had  seen  the  Tractarian 
Movement  from  a  distance,  in  due  perspective.  He  had  also 
seen  Catholicism  at  close  quarters.  He  had  realised  that  the 
logical  consequence  of  the  teaching  of  the  former  could  be 
nothing  less  than  unqualified  submission  to  the  latter.  On  his 
return  to  England  he  learned  that  more  than  one  of  his  Ox- 
ford friends  was  arriving,  reluctantly,  at  the  same  conclusion.., 


23  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

Then  there  arose  within  him  the  fiercest  struggle  his  gentle 
nature  had  ever  yet  known.  He  v/as  torn  by  the  desire  to  ga 
forward,  risking  all,  with  those  whom  he  reverenced  j  yet  was 
restrained  by  a  sense  of  honour.  For  there  was  in  Julius  a 
strain  of  obstinate,  almost  fanatic,  loyalty.  To  the  Anglican 
Church  he  had  pledged  himself.  Through  her  ministry  he 
hiad  received  illumination.  To  the  work  of  her  awakening 
he  had  given  all  his  young  enthusiasm.  How  then  could  he 
desert  her  ?  Her  rites  might  be  maimed.  The  scandal  of 
schism  might  tarnish  her  fair  fame.  Accusations  of  sloth  and 
lukewarmness  might  not  unjustly  be  preferred  against  her.  AH 
this  he  admitted  ;  and  it  was  very  characteristic  of  the  man 
that,  just  because  he  did  admit  it,  he  remained  within  her 
fold. 

Yet  the  decision  was  dislocating  to  all  his  thought,  even  as 
the  struggle  had  been.  It  left  him  bruised.  It  cruelly  shook 
his  self-confidence.  For  he  was  not  one  of  those  persons^ 
upon  whom  the  shipwreck  of  long-cherished  hopes  and  pur- 
poses have  a  stimulating  effect,  filling  them  merely  with  a 
buoyant  satisfaction  at  the  opportunity  afforded  them  of  be- 
ginning all  over  again  !  Julius  was  oppressed  by  the  sense  of 
a  great  failure.  The  diaries  of  this  period  are  but  sorrowful 
reading.  He  believed  he  should  go  softly  all  his  days ;  and^ 
from  a  certain  point  of  view,  in  this  he  was  right. 

And  it  was  here  that  Sir  Richard  Calmady  intervened.  He 
had  watched  his  cousin's  struggle,  had  accepted  its  reality, 
sympathising,  through  friendship  rather  than  through  moral  or 
intellectual  agreement.  For  he  was  one  of  those  fortunate 
mortals  who,  while  possessing  a  strong  sense  of  God,  have  but 
small  necessity  to  define  Him.  Many  of  Julius's  keenest 
agonies  appeared  to  him  subjective,  a  matter  of  words  and 
phrases.  Yet  he  respected  them,  out  of  the  sincere  regard  he 
bore  the  man  who  suffered  them.  He  did  more.  He  tried  a 
practical  remedy.  Modestly,  as  one  asking  rather  than  con- 
ferring  a  favour,  he  invited  Julius  to  remain  at  Brockhurst,  on 
a  fair  stipend,  as  domestic  chaplain  and  librarian. 

*'  In  the  fulness  of  your  generosity  towards  me  you  are 
creating  a  costly  sinecure,"  Julius  had  remonstrated. 

"  Not  in  the  least.  I  am  selfishly  trying  to  secure  myself  a 
most  welcome  companion,  by  asking  you  to  undertake  a  very 
modest  cure  of  souls  and  to  catalogue  my  books,  when  you 


'^"'     THE  CLOWN  23 

might  be  filling  some  important  post  and  qualifying  for  a 
bishopric.*' 

Julius  had  shaken  his  head  sadly  enough.  "  The  high  places 
of  the  Church  are  not  for  me,"  he  said.  "  Neither  are  her 
great  adventures." 

Thus  did  Julius  March,  somewhat  broken  both  in  health 
and  spirit,  become  a  carpet-priest.  The  trumpet  blasts  of  con- 
troversy reached  him  as  echoes  merely,  while  his  days  passed 
in  peaceful,  if  pensive  monotony.  He  read  prayers  morning 
and  evening  to  the  assembled  household  in  the  chapel ;  reduced 
the  confusion  of  the  library  shelves,  doing  a  fair  amount  of 
study,  both  secular  and  theological,  during  the  process  ;  rode 
with  his  cousin  on  fine  afternoons  to  distant  farms,  by  high- 
banked  lanes  in  the  lowland,  or  across  the  open  moors  ;  visited 
the  lodges,  or  the  keepers'  and  gardeners'  cottages  within  the 
limits  of  the  park,  on  foot.  Now  and  again  he  took  a  service, 
or  preached  a  sermon,  for  good  Mr.  Caryll  of  Sandyfield,  in 
whose  amiable  mind  instinctive  admiration  of  those,  even 
distantly,  related  to  persons  of  wealth  and  position  jostled  an 
equally  instinctive  terror  of  Mr.  March's  "  well-known  Ro- 
manising tendencies."  And  in  that  there  was,  surely,  a  touch 
of  the  irony  of  fate!  Lastly,  Julius  did  his  utmost  to  exer- 
cise an  influence  for  good  over  the  twenty  and  odd  boys  at  the 
racing  stables — an  unpromising  generation  at  best,  the  majority 
of  whom,  he  feared,  accepted  his  efforts  for  their  moral  and 
spiritual  welfare  with  the  same  somewhat  brutish  philosophy 
with  which  they  accepted  Tom  Chifney,  the  trainer's,  rough- 
and-ready  system  of  discipline,  and  the  thousand  and  one 
vagaries  of  the  fine-limbed,  queer-tempered  horses  which  were 
at  once  the  glory  and  torment  of  their  young  lives. 

Things  had  gone  on  thus  for  rather  more  than  a  year,  when 
Richard  Calmady  married.  Julius  was  perhaps  inclined,  be- 
forehand, to  underrate  the  importance  of  that  event.  He  was 
singularly  innocent,  so  far,  of  the  whole  question  of  woman. 
He  had  no  sisters.  At  Oxford  he  had  lived  exclusively  among 
men,  while  the  Tractarian  Movement  had  offered  a  sufficient 
outlet  to  all  his  emotion.  The  severe  and  exquisite  verses  of 
the  "  Lyra  Apostolica "  fitly  expressed  the  passions  of  his 
heart.  To  the  Church,  at  once  his  mother  and  his  mistress, 
he  had  wholly  given  his  first  love.  He  had  gone  so  far,  in- 
deed, in  a  rapture  of  devotion  one  Easter  day,  during  the  cele- 


2A  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

bration  of  the  Holy  Eucharist,  as  to  impose  upon  himself  a 
vow  of  livelong  chastity.  This  he  did — let  it  be  added — 
without  either  the  sanction  orlcnowledge  of  his  spiritual  ad- 
visers. The  vow,  therefore,  remained  unwitnessed  and  un- 
ratified, but  he  held  it  inviolable  nevertheless.  And  it  lay  but 
lightly  upon  him,  joyfully  almost — rather  as  a  ridding  of  him- 
self of  possible  perturbations  and  obsessions,  than  as  an  act  of 
most  austere  self-renunciation.  In  his  ignorance  he  merely 
went  forward  with  an  increased  freedom  of  spirit.  All  of 
which  is  set  down,  not  without  underlying  pathos,  in  the  diary 
of  that  date. 

And  that  freedom  of  spirit  remained  by  him,  notwithstand- 
ing his  altered  circumstances.  It  even  served — indirectly, 
since  none  knew  the  fact  of  his  self-dedication  save  himself—- 
as  a  basis  of  pleasant  intercourse  with  the  women  of  his  own 
social  standing  whom  he  now  met.  It  served  him  thus  in 
respect  of  Lady  Calmady,  who  accepted  him  as  a  member  of 
her  new  household  with  charming  kindliness,  treating  him 
with  a  gentle  solicitude  born  of  pity  for  his  far  from  robust 
health  and  for  the  mental  struggles  which  she  understood  him 
to  have  passed  through. 

Many  persons,  it  must  be  owned,  described  Julius  as  re- 
markably ugly.  But  he  did  not  strike  Katherine  thus.  His 
heavy  black  hair,  beardless  face  and  sallow  skin — rendered  dull 
and  colourless,  his  features  thickened,  thougii  not  actually 
scarred,  by  smallpox,  which  he  had  had  as  a  child, — his  sensi- 
tive mouth,  and  the  questioning  expression  of  his  short-sighted 
brown  eyes,  reminded  her  of  a  fifteenth-century  Florentine 
portrait  that  had  always  challenged  her  attention  when  she 
passed  it  in  the  vestibule  of  a  certain  obscure,  yet  aristocratic, 
Parisian  hotel,  on  the  left  bank — well  understood — of  the 
Seine. 

The  man  of  the  portrait  was  narrow-chested,  clothed  in 
black.  So  was  Julius  March.  He  had  long-fingered,  finely 
shaped  hands.  So  had  Julius.  He  gave  her  the  impression 
of  a  person  endowed  with  a  capacity  of  prolonged  and  silent 
self-sacrifice.  So  did  Julius.  She  wondered  about  his  story. 
For  Julius,  at  least — little  as  she  or  he  then  suspected  it — the 
deepest  places  of  the  story  still  lay  ahead. 


THE  CLOWN  25 


CHAPTER  IV 

RAISING    PROBLEMS    WHICH    IT   IS    THE    PURPOSE    OF   THIS    HIS- 
TORY   TO    RESOLVE 

TT  was  not  without  a  movement  of  inward  thanksgiving 
-*"  that,  the  festivities  connected  with  Sir  Richard  and  Lady 
Cahnady's  home-coming  being  over,  Julius  March  returned  to 
his  labours  in  the  Brockhurst  library.  Humanity  at  first  hand, 
whatever  its  social  standing  or  its  pursuits,  was,  in  truth,  al- 
ways slightly  agitating  to  him.  He  felt  more  at  home  when 
dealing  with  conclusions  than  with  the  data  that  go  to  build  up 
those  conclusions,  with  the  thoughts  of  men  printed  and 
bound,  than  with  the  urgent  raw  material  from  which  those 
thoughts  arise.  Revelation,  authority — these  were  still  his 
watchwords ;  and  in  face  of  them  even  the  harmless  spectacle 
of  a  country  neighbourhood  at  play,  let  alone  the  spectacle  of 
the  human  comedy  generally,  is  singularly  confusing. 

He  sought  the  soothing  companionship  of  books  with  even 
heightened  relief  one  fair  morning  some  three  weeks  later. 
For  Mrs.  St.  Quentin  and  Mademoiselle  de  Mirancourt  had 
arrived  at  Brockhurst  the  day  previously,  and  Julius  had  been 
sensible  of  certain  perturbations  of  mind  in  meeting  these  two 
ladies,  one  of  whom  was  a  devout  Catholic  by  inheritance  and 
personal  conviction ;  while  the  other,  though  nominally  a 
member  of  his  own  communion,  was  known  to  temper  her 
religion  with  a  wide,  if.  refined,  philosophy.  Conversation 
had  drifted  towards  serious  subjects  in  the  course  of  the  even-^ 
ing,  and  Mrs.  St.  Quentin  had  admitted,  with  a  playful  dep- 
recation of  her  dear  friend's  rigid  religious  attitude,  that  no 
one  creed,  no  one  system,  offered  an  adequate  solution  of  the 
infinite  mystery  and  complexity  of  life — as  she  knew  it.  The 
serene  adherence  of  one  charming  and  experienced  woman  to 
an  authority  which  he  had  rejected,  the  almost  equally  serene 
indifference  on  the  part  of  the  other  to  the  revelation  he  held 
as  absolute  and  final,  troubled  Julius.  Small  wonder  then, 
that  early,  after  a  solitary  breakfast,  he  retired  upon  the  society 


26  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

of  the  odd  volumes  cluttering  the  shelves  of  the  Long  Gal- 
lery, that  he  sorted,  arranged,  catalogued,  grateful  for  that  dull- 
ing of  thought  which  mechanical  labour  brings  with  it. 

But  fate  was  malicious,  and  elected  to  make  a  sport  of 
Julius  this  morning.  Unexpectedly  importunate  human  drama 
obtruded  itself,  the  deep  places  of  the  story — such  as,  in  the 
innocence  of  his  ascetic  refinement,  he  had  never  dreamed  of 
— began  to  reveal  themselves. 

He  had  climbed  the  wide,  carpeted  steps  of  the  liWary  lad- 
der and  seated  himself  on  the  topmost  one,  at  right  angles  to 
a  topmost  shelf  the  contents  of  which  he  proposed  to  investi- 
gate, duster  and  note-book  in  hand.  The  vast  perspective  of 
the  gallery  lengthened  out  before  him,  cool,  faint-tinted,  full 
of  a  diffused  and  silvery  light.  The  self-coloured,  unpainted 
paneling  of  the  walls  and  bookcases — but  one  shade  warmer 
in  tone  than  that  of  the  stone  mullions  and  transomes  of  the 
lofty  windows — gave  an  indescribable  delicacy  of  effect  to  the 
atmosphere  of  the  room.  Through  the  many-paned,  leaded 
lights  of  the  eastern  bay,  the  sunshine — misty,  full  of  dancing 
notes — streamed  in  obliquely,  bringing  into  quaint  prominence 
of  light  and  shadow  a  very  miscellaneous  collection  of  objects. 
— A  marble  Buddha,  benign  of  aspect,  his  right  hand  raised  in 
blessing,  seated,  cross-legged  upon  the  many-petalled  lotus. 
A  pair  of  cavalier's  jack-boots,  standing  just  below,  most 
truculent  and  ungainly  of  foot-gear,  wooden,  hinged,  leather- 
covered.  A  trophy  of  Polynesian  spears,  shields,  and  canoe 
paddles.  A  bronze  Antinous,  seductive  of  bearing  and  dainty 
of  limb,  but  roughened  by  green  rust.  A  collection  of  old 
sporting  prints,  softly  coloured,  covering  a  bare  space  of  wall, 
beneath  a  moose  skull,  from  the  broad  flat  antlers  of  which 
hung  a  pair  of  Canadian  snow-shoes.  Along  the  inside  wall 
of  the  great  room,  placed  at  regular  intervals,  were  consol 
tables  bearing  tall  oriental  jars  and  huge  bowls  of  fine  porce- 
lain, filled  with  potpourri;  so  that  the  scent  of  dried  rose 
leaves,  bay,  verbena,  and  many  spices  impregnated  the  air. 
The  place  was,  in  short,  a  museum.  Whatever  of  strange, 
grotesque,  and  curious,  Calmadys  of  past  generations  had  col- 
lected in  their  wanderings,  by  land  and  sea,  found  lodgment 
here.  It  was  a  home  of  half- forgotten  histories,  of  valorous 
deeds  grown  dim  through  the  lapse  of  years ;  a  harbour  of 
refuge  for  derelict  gods,  derelict  weapons,  derelict  volumes, 


THE  CLOWN  27 

derelict  instruments  which  had  once  discoursed  sweet  enough 
music,  but  the  fashion  of  which  had  now  passed  away.  The 
somewhat  obsolete  sentiment  of  the  place  harmonised  with  the 
thin,  silvery  light  and  the  thin  sweetness  of  spices  and  dead 
roses  which  pervaded  it.  It  seemed  to  smile,  as  with  the  pity- 
ing tolerance  of  the  benign  image  of  Buddha,  at  the  heat  and 
flame,  the  untempered  scarlet  and  purple  of  the  fleeting  pro- 
cession of  individual  lives,  that  had  ministered  to  its  furnish-^ 
ing.  For  how  much  vigorous  endeavour,  now  over  and  done 
with,  never  to  be  recalled,  had  indeed  gone  to  supply  the 
furnishing  of  that  room  ! — And,  after  all,  is  not  the  most  any 
human  creature  dare  hope  for  the  more  or  less  dusty  corner  of 
some  museum  shelf  at  last  ?  The  passion  of  the  heart  testi- 
fied to  by  some  battered  trinket,  the  sweat  of  the  brain  by 
some  maggot-eaten  manuscript,  the  agony  of  death,  at  best,  by 
some  round  shot  turned  up  by  the  ploughshare  .f^  And  how 
shall  any  one  dare  complain  of  this,  since  have  not  empires^ 
before  now  only  been  saved  from  oblivion  by  a  few  buried 
potsherds,  and  whole  races  of  mankind  by  childish  picture- 
scratchings  on  a  reindeer  bone  ?  Tout  lasse^  tout  passe^  tout 
casse.  The  individual — his  arts,  his  possessions,  his  religion, 
his  civilisation — is  always  as  an  envelope,  merely,  to  be  torn 
asunder  and  cast  away.  Nothing  subsists,  nothing  endures 
but  life  itself,  endlessly  self-renewed,  endlessly  one,  through 
the  endless  divergencies  of  its  manifestations.  And,  as  Julius 
March  was  to  find,  hide  from  it,  deny  it,  strive  to  elude  it  as 
we  may,  the  recognition  of  just  that  is  bound  to  grip  us  sooner 
or  later  and  hold  us  with  a  fearful  and  dominating  power  from 
which  there  is  no  escape. 

Meanwhile,  his  occupation  was  tranquil  enough,  comforta- 
bly remote,  as  it  seemed,  from  all  such  profound  and  disquiet- 
ing matters.  For  the  top  shelf  proved  not  very  prolific  of 
interest;  and  one  book  after  another,  examined  and  rejected  as 
worthless,  was  dropped — with  a  reproachful  flutter  of  pages 
and  final  thud — into  the  capacious  paper-basket  standing  on 
the  floor  below.  Then,  at  the  far  end  of  the  said  shelf,  he 
came  unexpectedly  upon  a  collection  of  those  quaint  chap- 
books  which  commanded  so  wide  a  circulation  during  the 
eighteenth  century. 

Julius,  with  the  true  bibliophile's  interest  in  all  originals,, 
examined  his  find   carefully.     The  tattered  and  dogs-eared. 


28  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

little  volumes,  coarsely  printed  and  embellished  by  a  number 
of  rough,  square  woodcuts,  had,  he  knew,  a  distinct  value. 
He  soon  perceived  that  they  formed  a  very  representative  se- 
lection. He  glanced  at  The  famous  History  of  Guy  of  War- 
-wick ;  at  that  of  Sir  Bevis  of  Southampton ;  at  yoaks  upon 
Joaks^  a  lively  work  regarding  the  manners  and  customs  of  the 
aristocracy  at  the  period  of  the  Restoration ;  at  the  record  of 
the  amazing  adventures  of  that  lusty  serving-wench  Long  Meg 
of  Westminster  ,*  and  at  that  refreshing  piece  of  comedy  known 
as  Merry  Tales  concerning  the  Sayings  and  Doings  of  the  Wise 
Men  of  Gotham. 

Finally,  hidden  behind  the  outstanding  frame  of  the  book- 
case, he  discovered  four  tiny  volumes  tied  together  with  a 
rusty,  black  ribbon.  A  heavy  coating  of  dust  lay  upon  them. 
A  large  spider,  moreover,  darted  from  behind  them.  Dust 
clung  unpleasantly  to  its  hairy  and  ill-favoured  person. 
It  was  a  matter  of  principle  with  Julius  never  to  take  life; 
yet  instinctively  he  drew  back  his  hand  from  the  book  in  dis- 
gust. 

^^Jraignee  du  matin^  chagrin^""  he  said,  involuntarily,  while 
he  watched  the  insect  make  good  its  escape  over  the  top  of  the 
bookcase. 

Then  he  flicked  uneasily  at  the  little  parcel  with  his  duster, 
causing  a  cloud  of  gray  atoms  to  float  up  and  out  into  the 
room.  Julius  was  perhaps  absurdly  open  to  impressions.  It 
took  him  some  seconds  to  recover  from  his  sense  of  repulsion 
and  to  untie  the  rusty  ribbon  around  the  little  books.  They 
proved  all  to  be  ragged  and  imperfect  copies  of  the  same  work. 
The  woodcuts  in  them  were  splotched  with  crude  colour. 
The  title-page  was  printed  in  assorted  type — here  a  line  of 
Roman  capitals,  there  one  in  italics  or  old  English  letters. 
The  inscription,  consequently,  was  diflicult  to  decipher,  causing 
him  to  hold  the  tattered  page  very  close  to  his  short-sighted 
eyes.     It  ran  thus  — 

*' Setting  forth  a  true  and  particular  account  of  the  dealings 
■of  Sir  Thomas  Calmady  with  the  forester's  daughter  and  the 
bloudy  death  of  her  only  child.  To  which  is  added  her 
prophecy  and  curse." 

Julius  had  been  standing,  so  as  to  reach  the  length  of  the 


THE  CLOWN  29 

shelf.  Now  he  sat  down  on  the  top  step  of  the  ladder  again. 
A  whole  rush  of  memories  came  upon  him.  He  remembered 
vaguely  how,  long  ago,  in  his  childhood,  he  had  heard  legends 
of  this  same  curse.  Staying  here  at  Brockhurst,  as  a  baby- 
child  with  his  mother,  maids  had  hinted  at  it,  gossiping  over 
the  nursery  fire  at  night;  and  his  mind,  irresistibly  attracted, 
even  then,  by  the  supernatural,  had  been  filled  at  once  by  des- 
perate curiosity  and  by  panic  fear.  He  paused,  thinking  back, 
singularly  moved,  as  one  on  the  edge  of  the  satisfaction  of 
long-desired  knowledge,  yet  slightly  self-contemptuous,  both 
of  his  own  emotion  and  of  the  rather  vulgar  means  by  which 
that  knowledge  promised  to  be  obtained. 

The  shafts  of  sunshine  fell  more  obliquely  across  the  eastern 
end  of  the  gallery.  Benign  Buddha  had  passed  into  shadow  ;. 
while  a  painting  by  Murillo,  standing  on  an  easel  near  by 
caught  the  light,  starting  into  arresting  reality.  It  represented 
a  hideous  and  misshapen  dwarf,  holding  a  couple  of  graceful 
greyhounds  in  a  leash — an  unhappy  creature  who  had  made 
sport  for  the  household  of  some  Castilian  grandee,  and  whose 
gorgeous  garments  were  ingeniously  designed  to  emphasise 
the  physical  degradation  of  his  contorted  body.  This  paint- 
ing, appearing  to  Julius  too  painful  for  habitual  contemplation^ 
had,  at  his  request,  been  removed  from  his  study  down-stairs  to 
its  present  station.  Just  now  he  fancied  it  looked  forth  at  him 
queerly  insistent.  At  this  distance  he  could  distinguish  little 
more  than  a  flare  of  scarlet  and  cloth-of-gold,  and  the  white 
of  the  hounds'  flanks  and  bellies  under  the  strong  sunlight. 
But  he  knew  the  picture  in  all  its  details  ;  and  was  oppressed 
by  the  remembrance  of  tragic  eyes  in  a  brutal  face,  eyes  that 
protested  dumbly  against  cruelty  inflicted  by  nature  and  by 
mankind  alike.  He,  Julius,  was  not,  so  he  feared,  quite 
guiltless  in  this  matter.  For  had  there  not  been  a  savour  of 
cruelty  in  his  ejection  of  the  portrait  of  this  unhappy  being 
from  his  peaceful  study  ? 

And  thinking  of  this  his  discomfort  augmented.  He  was^ 
assailed  by  an  unreasoning  nervousness  of  something  malign, 
something  sinister,  about  to  befall  or  to  become  known  to 
him. 

^^Jraignee  du  mat'tn^  chagrin^^  he  repeated  involuntarily. 

He  laid  the  four  little  chap-books  back  hastily  behind  the 
outstanding  woodwork  of  the  bookshelf,  descended  the  steps,. 


30  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

walked  the  kngth  of  the  gallery,  and  leaning  against  one  of  the 
stone  mullions  of  the  great,  eastern  bay  window  looked  out 
of  the  wide,  open  casement. 

The  prospect  was,  indeed,  reassuring  enough.  The  softly 
green  square  of  the  troco-ground,  the  brilliant  beds  and  borders 
of  the  brick-walled  gardens,  the  gray  flags  of  the  great  terrace 
— its  rows  of  little  orange  trees,  heavy  with  flower  and  fruit, 
set  in  blue  painted  tubs — lay  below  him  in  a  blaze  of  August 
sunshine.  From  the  direction  of  the  Long  Water  in  the  valley, 
Richard  Calmady  rode  up,  between  the  thorn  trees  and  the 
beds  of  bracken,  across  the  turf  slopes  of  the  park.  It  was  a 
joy  to  see  him  ride.  The  rider  and  horse  were  one,  in 
vigour  and  in  the  repose  which  comes  of  vigour — a  something 
classic  in  the  natural  beauty  and  sympathy  of  rider  and  of 
horse.  Half-way  up  the  slope  Richard  swerved,  turned  towards 
the  house,  sat  looking  up,  hat  in  hand,  while  Katherine  stood 
at  the  edge  of  the  terrace  looking  down,  speaking  with  him. 
The  warm  breeze  fluttered  her  full  muslin  skirts,  rose  and 
white,  and  the  white  lace  of  her  parasol.  The  rich  tones  of 
her  voice  and  the  ring  of  her  laughter  came  up  to  Julius,  as  he 
leant  against  the  stone  mullion,  along  with  the  droning  of  in- 
numerable bees,  and  the  cooing  of  the  pink-footed  pigeons — 
that  bowed  to  one  another,  spreading  their  tails,  drooping  their 
wings  amorously,  upon  the  broad,  gray  string-course  running 
along  the  house  front  just  beneath.  Mademoiselle  de  Miran- 
court,  a  small,  neat,  gray  and  black  figure,  was  beside  Kather- 
ine, and,  now  and  again,  he  heard  the  pretty  staccato  of  her 
foreign  speech.  Then  Richard  Calmady  rode  onward,  turn- 
ing half  round  in  the  saddle,  looking  up  for  a  moment  at  the 
woman  he  loved.  His  horse  broke  into  a  canter,  bearing  him 
swiftly  in  and  out  of  the  shadow  of  the  glistening,  domed 
oaks  and  ancient,  stag-headed,  Spanish  chestnuts  which  crowned 
the  ascent,  and  on  down  the  long,  softly-shaded  vista  of  the 
lime  avenue.  While  Camp,  the  bulldog,  who  had  lain  pant- 
ing in  the  bracken,  streaked  like  a  white  flash  up  the  hillside 
in  pursuit  of  his  well-beloved  master. 

And  Julius  March  moved  away  from  the  open  window  with 
a  sigh.  Yet  what,  after  all,  of  malign  or  sinister  was  percepti- 
ble, conceivable  even,  in  respect  of  this  glorious  morning  and 
these  happy  people — unless,  as  he  reflected,  something  of 
jpathos  is  of  necessity  ever  resident  in  all  beauty,  all  happiness, 


THE  CLOWN  3? 

the  world  being  sinful,  and  existence  so  prolific  of  pain  and 
melancholy  happenings  ?  So  he  went  back,  climbed  the  library 
steps  again,  and  taking  the  little  bundle  of  chap-books  from 
their  dusty  resting-place,  set  himself,  in  a  somewhat  peniten- 
tial spirit,  to  master  their  contents.  If  the  occupation  was 
distasteful  to  him,  the  more  wholesome  to  pursue  it !  So,  sup- 
plying the  deficiencies  of  torn  or  defaced  pages  by  reference  to 
another  of  the  copies,  he  arrived  by  degrees  at  a  clear  under- 
standing of  the  whole  matter.  The  story  was  set  forth  in 
rhyming  doggerel.  The  poet  was  not  blessed  with  a  gift  of 
melody  or  of  style.  Absence  of  scansion  tortured  the  ear. 
Coarseness  of  diction  offended  the  taste.  And  yet,  as  he  read 
on,  Julius  reluctantly  admitted  that  the  cruel  tale  gained  cred- 
ibility and  moral  force  from  the  very  homeliness  of  the  lan- 
guage in  which  it  was  chronicled. 

Thus  Julius  learned  how,  during  the  closing  years  of  the 
Commonwealth,  the  young  royalist  gentleman.  Sir  Thomas^ 
Calmady,  dwelling  in  enforced  seclusion  at  Brockhurst,  re- 
lieved the  tedium  of  country  life  by  indulgence  in  divers 
amours.  He  was  large-hearted,  apparently,  and  could  not  see 
a  comely  face  without  attempting  intimate  acquaintance  with 
the  possessor  of  it.  Among  other  damsels  distinguished  by 
his  attentions  was  his  head  forester's  handsome  daughter^ 
whom,  under  reiterated  promise  of  marriage,  he  seduced.  In 
due  time  she  bore  him  a  child,  ideally  beautiful,  according  to 
the  poet  of  the  chap-book,  blessed  with  "red-gold  hair  and 
eyes  of  blue,"  and  many  charms  of  infantile  healthfulness. 
And  yet,  notwithstanding  the  noble  looks  of  her  little  son,  the 
forester's  daughter  still  remained  unwed.  For  just  now  came 
the  Restoration,  and  along  with  it  a  notable  change  in  the  out- 
look of  Sir  Thomas  Calmady  and  many  another  lusty  young 
gallant,  since  the  event  in  question  not  only  restored  Charles 
the  Second  to  the  arms  of  his  devoted  subjects,  but  restored 
such  loyal  gentlemen  to  the  by  no  means  too  strait-laced  so- 
ciety of  town  and  court.  Thence,  some  few  years  later.  Sir 
Thomas — amiably  willing  in  all  things  to  oblige  his  royal 
master — brought  home  a  bride,  whose  rank  and  wealth,  ac- 
cording to  the  censorious  chap-book,  were  extensively  in  excess 
of  her  youth  and  virtue. 

Julius  lingered  a  little  in  contemplation  of  the  quaint  wood- 
cut representing  the  arrival  of  this  lady  at  Brockhurst.     Clothed 


32  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

in  a  bottle-green  bodice — very  generously  decolleteey  her  head 
adorned  by  a  portentous  erection  of  coronet  and  feathers,  a 
sanguine  dab  of  colour  on  her  cheek,  she  craned  a  skinny  neck 
out  of  the  window  of  the  family  coach.  Apparently  she  was 
engaged  in  directing  the  movements  of  persons — presumably 
footmen — clad  in  canary-coloured  coats  and  armed  with  long 
staves.  With  these  last,  they  treated  a  female  figure  in  blue 
to,  as  it  seemed,  sadly  rough  usage.  And  the  context  informed 
Julius,  in  jingling  verse,  how  that  poor  Hagar,  the  forester's 
daughter,  inconveniently  defiant  of  custom  and  of  common 
sense,  had  stoutly  refused  to  be  cast  forth  into  the  social 
wilderness,  along  with  her  small  Ishmael  and  a  few  pounds 
sterling  as  price  of  her  honour  and  content,  until  she  had  stood 
face  to  face  with  Sarah,  the  safely  church-wed,  if  none  too 
reputable,  wife.  It  informed  him,  further,  how  the  said  small 
Ishmael — whether  alarmed  by  the  violence  of  my  lady's  men- 
servants,  or  wanting  merely,  childlike,  to  welcome  his  return- 
ing father — ran  to  the  coach  door  and  clambered  on  the  step  ; 
whence,  thanks  to  a  vicious  thrust — so  declares  the  chap-book 
— from  "  the  painted  Jezebel  within,"  he  fell,  while  the  horses 
plunging  forward  caused  the  near  hind  wheel  of  the  heavy, 
lumbering  vehicle  to  pass  over  his  legs,  almost  severing  them 
from  his  body  just  above  the  knee. 

Thereupon — and  here  the  homely  language  of  the  gutter 
poet  rose  to  a  level  of  rude  eloquence — the  outraged  mother, 
holding  the  mangled  and  dying  child  in  her  arms,  cursed  the 
man  who  had  brought  this  ruin  upon  her.  Cursed  him  and 
his  descendants,  to  the  sixth  and  seventh  generations,  good  and 
bad  alike.  Declaring,  moreover,  that  as  judgment  on  his  per- 
fidy and  lust,  no  owner  of  Brockhurst  should  reach  the  life 
limit  set  by  the  Psalmist,  and  die  quiet  and  Christianly  in  his 
bed,  until  a  somewhat  portentous  event  should  have  taken 
place — namely,  until,  as  the  jingling  rhyme  set  forth  : — 

** —  a  fatherless  babe  to  the  birth  shall  have  come, 
Of  brother  or  sister  shall  he  have  none, 
But  red-gold  hair  and  eyes  of  blue 
And  a  foot  that  will  never  know  stocking  or  shoe. 
If  he  opens  his  purse  to  the  lamenter's  cry, 
Then  the  woe  shall  lift  and  be  laid  for  aye." 

Julius  March,  his  spare,  black  figure  crouched  together,  sat 
•on  the  top  step  of  the  library  ladder  musing.     His  first  move- 


THE  CLOWN  33 

mcnt  had  been  one  of  refined  and  contemptuous  disgust.  Sen- 
suality and  the  tragedies  engendered  by  it  were  so  wholly  for- 
eign to  his  nature  and  mental  outlook,  that  it  was  difficult  to 
him  to  reckon  with  them  seriously  and  admit  the  very  actual 
and  permanent  part  which  they  play  and  always  have  played 
in  the  great  drama  of  human  life.  It  distressed,  it,  in  a  sense^ 
annoyed  him  that  the  legend  of  Brockhurst,  which  had  caused 
him  elaborate  imaginative  terrors  during  his  childhood,  should 
belong  to  this  gross  and  vulgar  order  of  history.  Yet  indu- 
bitably— as  he  reluctantly  admitted — each  owner  of  Brock- 
hurst  had  very  certainly  found  death  in  the  midst  of  life,  and 
that  according  to  some  rather  brutal  and  bloody  pattern.  This 
might,  of  course,  be  judged  the  result  of  merest  coincidence* 
Had  he  leisure  and  opportunity  to  search  them  out,  he  could 
find,  no  doubt,  plausible  explanation  of  the  majority  of  cases. 
Only  that  fact  of  persistent  violence,  persistent  accident,  did 
remain.  It  stared  him  in  the  face,  so  to  speak,  defiant  of  de-- 
nial.  And  the  deduction,  consequent  upon  it,  stared  him  in 
the  face  likewise.  He  was  constrained  to  confess  that  the  first 
clause  of  the  deeply  wronged  mother's  prediction  had  found 
ample  fulfilment. — Julius  paused,  shifted  his  position  uneasily^ 
somewhat  fearful  of  the  conclusions  of  his  own  reasoning. 

For  how  about  the  second  clause  of  that  same  prediction  ? 
How  about  the  advent  of  that  strange  child  of  promise,  wha 
preordained  in  his  own  flesh  to  bear  the  last  and  heaviest  stroke 
at  the  hands  of  retributive  justice,  should,  rightly  bearing  it, 
bring  salvation  both  to  himself  and  to  his  race  ?  Behind  the 
coarse  and  illiterate  presentiment  of  the  chap-book,  Julius  be- 
gan dimly  to  apprehend  a  somewhat  majestic  moral  and  spir- 
itual tragedy,  a  tragedy  of  vicarious  suffering  crowned  by  tri- 
umphant emancipation.  Thus  has  God,  as  he  reflected  with 
a  self-condemnatory  emotion  of  humility,  chosen  the  base 
things  of  the  world  and  those  which  are  despised — yea,  and 
the  things  which  are  not,  to  bring  to  nought  the  things  which 
are. — His  heart,  hungry  of  all  martyrdom,  all  saintly  doings, 
went  forth  to  welcome  the  idea.  But  then,  he  asked  himself 
almost  awed,  in  this  sceptical,  rationalistic  age,  are  such  semi- 
miraculous  moral  examples  still  possible  ?  And  answered, 
with  strong  exultation — as  one  finding  practical  justification 
of  a  long,  though  silently,  cherished  conviction — yes,  that 
even  now,  nineteen  centuries  after  the  death  of  that  divine 


34  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

'^  Saving  Victim  to  whose  service  he  had  devoted  his  life  and  the 
^    joys  of  his  manhood,  such  nobly  sad  and  strange  happenings 
^    >may  still  be. 

^       And  even  u^hile  he  thus  answered,  his  eyes  were  drawn  In- 

A     voluntarily  to  the  portrait  of  the  unsightly  dwarf,  painted  by 

^  Velasguez.     The  broad  shaft  of  sunlight  had  crept  backward, 

i^      away   Irom    it,    leaving   the   canvas    unobtrusive,  no    longer 

/harshly  evident  either  in  violence  of  colour  or  grotesqueness  of 
form.  It  had  become  part  of  the  great  whole,  merely  modu- 
/lated  to  gracious  harmony  with  the  divers  objects  surround- 
ing it,  and  like  them  softly  overlaid  by  a  diffused  and  silvery 
light. 


CHAPTER  V 

IN    WHICH   JULIUS    MARCH    BEHOLDS    THE    VISION    OF    THE 

NEW   LIFE 

X-TE  was  aroused  from  these  austere,  yet,  to  him,  inspiring 
reflections  by  the  click  of  an  opening  door  and  the 
sound  of  women's  voices.  Mademoiselle  de  Mirancourt 
paused  on  the  threshold,  one  hand  raised  in  quick  admiration, 
the  other  renting  on  Lady  Calmady's  arm. 

"  But  this  is  superb,"  she  cried  gaily.  "  Your  charming 
King  Richard,  Cceur  cT  Or^  has  given  you  a  veritable  palace  to 
inhabit ! " 

"  Ah  yes  !  King  Richard  has  indeed  given  me  a  palace  to 
live  in.  But,  better  still,  he  has  given  me  his  dear  heart  of 
gold  in  which  to  hide  the  life  of  my  heart  forever  and  a  day." 

Katherine's  words  came  triumphantly,  more  as  song  than  as 
speech.  She  caught  the  elder  woman's  upraised  hand  gently 
and  kissed  it,  looking  her,  meanwhile,  full  in  the  face. — "  I  am 
happy,  very,  very  happy,  best  and  dearest,"  she  said.  "  And 
it  is  so  delicious  to  be  happy." 

"  Ah,  my  child,  my  beautiful  child,"  Mademoiselle  de  Mi- 
rancourt cried. 

There  were  tears  in  her  pretty,  patient  eyes.  For  if  youth 
finds  age  pathetic  with  the  obvious  pathos  of  spent  body  and 
of  tired  mind  which  has  ceased  to  greatly  hope,  how  far  more 


THE  CLOWN  35 

deeply  pathetic  does  age,  from  out  its  sad  and  settled  wisdom, 
find  poor  gallant  youth  and  all  its  still  unbroken  trust  in  the 
beneficence  of  destiny,  its  unbroken  faith  in  the  enchantments 
of  earth  ! 

Meanwhile,  Julius  March — product  as  he  was  of  an  arbi- 
trary system  of  thought  and  training,  and  by  so  much  divorced 
from  the  natural  instincts  of  youth  and  age  alike,  the  confident 
joy  of  the  one,  the  mature  acquiescence  of  the  other — in  over- 
hearing this  brief  conversation  suffered  embarrassment  amount- 
ing almost  to  shame.  For  not  only  Katherine's  words,  but 
the  vital  gladness  of  her  voice,  the  sweet  exuberance  of  her 
manner  as  she  bent,  in  all  her  spotless  bravery  of  white  and 
rose,  above  the  elder  woman's  hand  and  kissed  it,  came  to 
him  as  a  revelation  before  which  he  shrank  with  a  certain 
fearful  modesty.  Julius  had  read  of  love  in  the  poets,  of 
course ;  but,  in  actual  fact,  he  had  never  wooed  a  woman,  nor 
heard  from  any  woman's  lips  the  language  of  intimate  devo- 
tion. The  cold  embraces  of  the  Church — a  church,  as  he  too 
often  feared,  rendered  barren  by  schism  and  heresy — were  the 
only  embraces  he  had  ever  suffered.  Things  read  of  and 
things  seen,  moreover,  are  singularly  different  in  power.  And 
so  he  trembled  now  at  the  mystery  of  human  love,  actual  and 
concrete,  here  close  beside  him.  He  was,  indeed,  moved  to 
the  point  of  losing  his  habitual  suavity  of  demeanour.  He 
rose  hastily  and  descended  the  library  steps,  forgetful  of  the 
handful  of  chap-books,  which  fell  in  tattered  and  dusty  con- 
fusion upon  the  floor. 

Katherine  looked  round.  Until  now  she  had  been  unob- 
servant of  his  presence,  innocent  of  other  audience  than  the 
old  friend,  to  whom  it  was  fitting  enough  to  confide  dear 
secrets.  For  an  instant  she  hesitated,  embarrassed  too,  her 
pride  touched  to  annoyance,  at  having  laid  bare  the  treasures 
of  her  heart  thus  unwittingly.  She  was  tempted  to  retreat 
through  the  still  open  door,  into  the  librar}^,  and  leave  the  re- 
view of  the  Long  Gallery  and  its  many  relics  to  a  more  con- 
venient season.  But  it  was  not  Katherine's  habit  to  run 
away,  least  of  all  from  the  consequences  of  her  own  actions. 
And  her  sense  of  justice  compeHed  her  to  admit  that,  in  this 
case,  the  indiscretion — if  indiscretion  indeed  there  was — lay 
with  her,  in  not  having  se-en  poor  Julius ;  rather  than  witlv 
him,  in  having  overheard  her  little  outburst.     So- she  called  to- 


36  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

him  in  friendly  greeting,  and  came  swiftly  towards  him  down 
the  length  of  the  great  room. 

And  Julius  stood  waiting  for  her,  leaning  against  the  frame 
of  the  library  ladder;  a  spare,  black  figure,  notably  at  variance 
with  the  broad  glory  of  sunshine  and  colour  reigning  out  of 
doors. 

His  usually  quick  instinct  of  courtesy  was  in  abeyance, 
shaken,  as  he  still  was,  and  confused  by  the  revelation  that 
had  just  come  to  him.  He  looked  at  Lady  Calmady  with  a 
new  and  agitated  understanding.  She  made  so  fair  a  picture 
that  he  could  only  gaze  dumbly  at  it.  Tall  in  fact,  Katherine 
was  rendered  taller  by  the  manner — careless  of  passing  fashion 
—in  which  her  hair  was  dressed  The  warm,  brown  mass 
of  it,  rolled  up  and  back  from  her  forehead,  showed  all  the 
perfect  oval  of  her  face.  Tender,  lovely,  smiling,  her  blue- 
brown  eyes  soft  and  lustrous,  with  a  certain  wondering  seren- 
ity in  their  depths,  there  was  yet  something  majestic  about 
Katherine  Calmady.  No  poor  or  unworthy  line  marred  the 
nobility  of  her  face  or  figure.  The  dark,  arched  eyebrows, 
the  well-chiselled  and  slightly  aquiline  nose,  the  firm  chin  and 
throat,  the  shapely  hands,  all  denoted  harmony  and  complete- 
ness of  development,  and  promised  a  reserve  of  strength,  ready 
to  encounter  and  overcome  if  danger  were  to  be  met.  Years 
afterwards,  the  remembrance  of  Katherine  as  he  just  then  saw 
her  would  return  upon  Julius,  as  prophetic  of  much.  Quail- 
ing in  spirit,  still  reluctant,  in  his  asceticism,  to  comprehend 
and  reckon  with  her  personality  in  the  fulness  of  its  present 
manifestation,  he  answered  her  at  random,  and  with  none  of 
the  pause  and  playful  evasiveness  usual  to  his  speech. 

'^  I  am  very  glad  we  have  found  you,"  Katherine  said 
frankly.  "  I  was  afraid,  by  the  fact  of  your  not  coming  to 
breakfast,  that  you  were  overtired.  We  talked  late  last  night. 
Did  we  weary  you  too  much  ?  " 

"  Existence  in  itself  is  vexatiously  wearisome  at  times — at 
least  to  feeble  persons,  like  myself." 

Katherine's  smik  faded.  She  looked  at  him  with  charming 
solicitude. 

"Ah  !  you  arc  not  well,"  she  declared.  "  Go  out  and  en- 
joy the  sunshine.  Leave  all  those  stupid  books.  Go,"  she 
repeated,  "  order  one  of  the  horses.  Go  and  meet  Richard, 
He  has  gone  over  to  look  at  the  new  lodge.     You  could  ride 


THE  CLOWN  37 

all  the  way  through  the  east  woods  in  the  cool.  See,  I  will 
put  these  tidy." 

And,  as  she  spoke,  Katherine  stooped  to  pick  up  the  scat- 
tered chap-books  from  the  ground.  But,  in  the  last  few  mo- 
ments, while  looking  at  her,  yet  further  understanding  had 
overtaken  Julius  March.  Not  only  the  mystery  of  human 
love,  but  the  mystery  of  dawning  motherhood  had  come  close 
to  him.  And  he  put  Lady  Calmady  aside  with  a  determina- 
tion of  authority  somewhat  surprising. 

"  No,  no,  pardon  me  !  They  are  dusty,  they  will  soil  your 
hands.     You  must  not  touch  those  books,"  he  said. 

Katherine  straightened  herself  up.  Her  face  was  slightly 
flushed,  her  expression  full  of  kindly  amusement. 

"  Dear  Julius,  you  are  very  imperative.  Surely  I  may 
make  my  hands  dirty,  once  in  a  way,  in  a  good  cause  ?  They 
will  wash,  you  know,  just  as  well  as  your  own,  after  all." 

"A  thousand  times  better.  Still,  I  will  ask  you  not  to 
touch  those  books.  I  have  valid  reasons.  For  one,  an  evil 
beast  in  the  form  of  a  spider  has  dwelt  among  them.  I  dis- 
turbed it  and  it  fled,  looking  as  though  it  had  grown  old  in 
trespasses  and  sins.     It  seemed  to  me  a  thing  of  ill  omen." 

He  tried  to  steady  himself,  to  treat  the  matter  lightly.  Yet 
his  speech  struck  Katherine  as  hurried  and  anxious,  out  of  all 
proportion  to  the  matter  in  hand. 

"  Poor  thing — and  you  killed  It  ?  Yet  it  couldn't  help 
being  ugly,  I  suppose,"  she  answered,  not  without  a  touch  of 
malice. 

Julius  was  on  his  knees,  his  long,  thin  fingers  gathering  up 
the  tattered  pages,  ranging  them  into  a  bundle,  tying  them  to- 
gether with  the  tag  of  rusty,  black  ribbon  aforesaid.  For  an 
unreasoning,  fierce  desire  was  upon  him — very  alien  to  his 
usual  gentle  attitude  of  mind — to  shield  this  beautiful  woman 
from  all  acquaintance  with  the  foul  story  set  forth  in  those 
little  books.  To  shield  her,  indeed,  from  more  than  merely 
that. — For  a  vague  presentiment  possessed  him  that  she  might, 
in  some  mysterious  way,  be  intimately  involved  in  the  final 
developments  of  that  same  story  which,  though  august,  were 
so  full  of  suffering,  so  profoundly  sad.  Meanwhile,  in  his 
excitement,  he  replied  less  to  her  gently  mocking  question 
than  to  the  importunities  of  his  own  thought. 

"  No,"  he  said,  ^'  I  let  it  go.     I  begin  to  fear  it  is  useless 


38  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

to  attempt  to  take  short-cuts  to  the  extinction  of  what  is  evil. 
It  does  not  cease,  but  merely  changes  its  form.  Unwillingly  I 
liave  learned  that.     No  violent  death  is  possible  to  things  evil." 

Julius  rose  to  his  feet.  ^^ 

"They  must  go  on,"  he  continued,  "till,  in  the  merciful 
providence  of  God,  their  term  is  reached,  till  their  power  is 
exhausted,  till  they  have  worn  themselves  out." 

Lady  Calmady  turned  and  moved  thoughtfully  towards  the 
far  end  of  the  room,  where  the  sunshine  still  slanted  in  through 
the  open  casements  of  the  bay  window,  and  where  the  deli- 
cate, little  spinster  lady  stood  awaiting  her.  Amorous  pigeons 
cooed  below  on  the  string-course.  Bees  droned  sleepily 
against  the  glass. 

"  But,"  she  said,  in  gentle  remonstrance,  "  that  is  a  rather 
terrible  doctrine,  Julius.  Surely  it  is  not  quite  just ;  for  it 
would  seem  to  leave  us  almost  hopelessly  at  the  mercy  of  the 
wrong-doing  of  others." 

"Yes,  but  are  we  not,  just  that — all  of  us  at  the  mercy  of 
the  wrong-doing  of  others  ? — The  courageous  forever  suffer- 
ing for  the  cowardly,  the  wise  for  the  ignorant  and  brutish, 
the  just  for  the  unjust  ?  Is  not  this,  perhaps,  the  very  deep- 
est lesson  of  our  religion  ?  " 

"  Oh  no,  no  !  "  Katherine  cried  incredulously.  "  There  is 
something  at  once  deeper  and  more  comforting  than  that. 
Remember,  in  the  beginning,  when  God  created  all  things  and 
reviewed  His  handiwork.  He  pronounced  it  very  good." 

Julius  was  recovering  his  suavity.  The  little  packet  of  chap- 
books  rested  safely  in  the  pocket  of  his  coat. 

"  But  that  was  a  long  time  ago,"  he  said,  smiling. 

They  reached  the  bay  window.  Katherine  took  her  old 
friend's  hand  once  again  and  laid  it  caressingly  upon  her  arm. 

"  Pardon  me  for  keeping  you  waiting,  dearest,"  she  said. 
"  Julius  is  in  fault.  He  will  argue  with  me  about  the  date  of 
the  creation,  and  that  takes  time.  He  declares  it  was  so  long 
ago  that  everything  has  had  time  to  grow  very  old  and  go  very 
wrong.  But,  indeed,  he  is  mistaken.  Agree  with  me,  tell 
him  he  is  mistaken  !  The  world  is  deliciously  young  yet.  It 
was  only  made  a  little  over  twenty-two  years  ago.  I  must 
know,  for  I  came  into  it  then.  And  I  found  it  all  as  new  as 
I  was  myself,  and  a  thousand  times  prettier — quite  adorably 
gay,  adorably  fresh." 


THE  CLOWN  ^     39 

Katherine's  voice  sank,  grew  fuller  in  tone.  She  gazed  out 
over  the  brilliant  garden  to  the  woodland  shimmering  in  the 
noontide  heat.  Then  she  looked  at  Julius  March,  her  eyes 
and  lips  eloquent  with  joyous  conviction. 

"  Indeed,  I  think,  God  makes  His  whole  creation  over 
again  for  each  one  of  us,  it  is  so  beautiful.  As  in  the  begin- 
ning, so  now,"  she  said  j  "  behold  it  is  very  good — ah  yes  !  who 
can  doubt  that — it  is  very  good  !  " 

"  Amen.  To  you  may  it  ever  so  continue,"  Julius  mur- 
mured, bowing  his  head. 

That  evening  there  was  a  dinner  party  at  Brockhurst.  Lord 
Denier  brought  his  handsome  second  wife.  She  was  a  Hel- 
lard,  and  took  the  judge  faute  de  mieux^  so  said  the  wicked 
world,  rather  late  in  life.  The  Cathcarts  of  Newlands  and 
their  daughter  Mary  came ;  and  Roger  Ormiston  too,  who, 
being  off  duty,  had  run  down  from  London  for  a  few  days* 
partridge  shooting,  bringing  with  him  his  cousin  Colonel  St. 
Quentin — invalided  home,  to  his  own  immense  chagrin,  in  the 
midst  of  the  Afghan  war.  On  the  terrace,  after  dinner,  for 
the  night  was  warm  enough  for  the  whole  company  to  take 
coffee  out  of  doors.  Lady  Calmady — incited  thereunto  by  her 
brother — had  persuaded  Mary  Cathcart  to  sing,  accompanying 
herself  on  her  guitar.  The  girl's  musical  gifts  were  of  no  ex- 
traordinary order ;  but  her  young  contralto  was  true  and  sweet. 
The  charm  of  the  hour  and  the  place,  moreover,  was  calcu- 
lated to  heighten  the  effect  of  the  Jacobite  songs  and  old-world 
love  ditties  which  she  selected. 

Roger  Ormiston  unquestionably  found  her  performance  suf- 
ficiently moving.  But  then  the  girl's  frank  manner,  her  warm, 
gipsy-like  colouring,  and  the  way  in  which  she  could  sit  a 
horse,  moved  him  also  ;  had  done  so,  indeed,  ever  since  he  first 
saw  her,  as  quite  a  child,  some  eight  or  nine  years  ago,  on  one 
of  his  earliest  visits  to  Brockhurst,  fighting  a  half-broken, 
Welsh  pony  that  refused  at  a  grip  by  the  roadside.  The  little 
maiden,  her  face  pale,  for  once,  from  concentration  of  pur- 
pose, had  forced  the  pony  over  the  grip.  Then,  slipping  out 
of  the  saddle,  she  coaxed  and  kissed  the  rough,  unruly,  little 
beast,  with  tears  of  apology  for  the  hard  usage  to  which  she 
had  been  obliged  to  subject  it.  So  stout,  yet  so  tender,  a 
heart,  struck  Roger  as  an  excellent  thing  in  woman.  And 
now,  listening  to  the  full,  rounded  notes  and  thrumming  of  the 


40  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

guitar  strings,  in  the  evening  quiet  under  the  stars,  he  wished, 
remorsefully,  that  he  had  never  been  guilty  of  any  pleasant 
sins,  that  his  record  was  cleaner,  his  tastes  less  expensive ; 
that  he  was  a  better  fellow  all  round,  in  short,  than  he  was, 
because,  then,  perhaps 

And  Julius  March,  too,  found  the  singing  somewhat  agita- 
ting, though  to  him  the  personality  of  the  singer  was  of  small 
account.  Another  personality,  and  a  train  of  feeling  evoked 
by  certain  new  aspects  of  it,  had  pursued  him  all  the  day  long. 
Katherine,  mindful  of  her  somewhat  outspoken  divergence  of 
opinion  from  his,  in  the  morning,  had  been  particularly 
thoughtful  of  his  pleasure  and  entertainment.  At  dinner  she 
directed  the  conversation  upon  subjects  interesting  to  him,  and 
had  thereby  made  him  talk  more  unreservedly  than  was  his 
wont.  Not  even  the  most  saintly  of  human  beings  is  wholly 
indifferent  to  social  success.  Julius  was  conscious  of  a  stir- 
ring of  the  blood,  of  a  subdued  excitement.  These  sensations 
were  pleasurable.  But  his  training  had  taught  him  to  distrust 
pleasurable  sensations  as  too  often  the  offspring  of  very  ques- 
tionable parentage.  And,  while  Mary  Cathcart's  voice  still 
breathed  upon  the  fragrant  night  air,  he,  standing  on  the  out- 
skirts of  the  listening  company,  slipped  away  unperceived. 

His  study,  a  long  narrow  room  occupying,  with  his  bed- 
room, the  ground  floor  of  the  chapel  wing  of  the  house,  struck 
chill  as  he  entered  it.  Above  the  range  of  pigeon-holes  and 
little  drawers,  forming  the  back  of  the  writing-table,  two  can- 
dles burned  on  either  side  of  a  bronze  pieta^  which  Julius  had 
brought  back  with  him  from  Rome.  On  the  broad  slab  of 
the  table  below  were  the  many  quires  of  foolscap  forming  the 
library  catalogue,  neatly  numbered  and  lettered  -,  while  his 
diary  lay  open  upon  the  blotting-pad,  ready  for  the  chronicle 
of  the  past  day.  Beside  it  was  the  packet  of  chap-books,  still 
tied  together  with  their  tag  of  rusty  ribbon. 

It  was  Julius  March's  habit  to  exchange  his  coat  for  a  cas- 
sock in  the  privacy  of  his  study.  He  did  so  now,  and  knotted 
a  black  cord  about  his  waist.  Let  no  one  underrate  the  sus- 
taining power  of  costume,  whether  it  take  the  form  of  ballet- 
skirt  or  monk's  frock.  Human  nature  is  but  a  weak  thing  at 
best,  and  needs  outward  and  visible  signs,  not  only  to  support 
its  faith  in  its  deity,  but  even  its  faith  in  its  own  poor  self ! 
Of  persons  of  sensitive  temperament  and  limited  experience, 


THE  CLOWN  41 

such  as  Julius,  this  is  particularly  true.  Putting  off  his  secu- 
lar garment,  as  a  rule,  he  could  put  off  secular  thoughts  as 
well.  Beneath  the  severe  and  scanty  folds  of  the  cassock 
there  was  small  space  for  remembrance  of  the  pomp  and  glory 
of  this  perishing  world.  At  least  be  hoped  so.  To-night, 
importuned  as  he  had  been  by  scenes  and  emotions  quite  other 
than  ecclesiastical,  Julius  literally  sought  refuge  in  his  cassock. 
It  represented  "  port  after  stormy  seas  " — home,  after  travel  in 
lands  altogether  foreign. 

He  took  St.  Augustine's  De  Civitate  Dei  from  its  place  in 
the  book  shelves  lining  one  side  of  the  room.  There  should 
be  peace  in  the  soul,  surely,  emancipation  from  questioning  of 
transitory  things  in  reading  of  the  City  of  God  ?  But,  alas, 
his  attention  strayed.  That  sense  of  subdued  excitement  was 
upon  him  yet.  He  thought  of  the  conversation  at  dinner,  of 
brilliant  speeches  he  might  have  made,  of  the  encouragement 
of  Katherine's  smiling  eyes  and  sympathetic  speech,  of  the 
scene  in  the  gallery  that  morning,  of  Mary  Cathcart's  old-time 
love  ditties.  The  City  of  God  was  far  off.  All  these  were 
things  very  near  at  hand.  Notwithstanding  the  scanty  folds 
of  the  cassock^  they  importuned  him  still. 

Pained  at  his  own  lack  of  poise  and  seriousness,  Julius  re- 
turned the  volume  of  St.  Augustine  to  its  place,  and,  sitting 
down  at  the  writing-table  prepared  to  chronicle  the  day's 
events.  Perhaps  by  putting  a  statement  of  them  on  paper  he 
could  rid  himself  of  their  all  too  potent  influence.  But  his 
thought  was  tumultuous,  words  refused  to  come  in  proper  or- 
der and  sequence;  and  Julius  abhorred  that  erasures  should 
mar  the  symmetry  of  his  pages.  Impatiently  he  pushed  the 
diary  from  him.  Clearly  it,  like  the  City  of  God,  was  des- 
tined to  wait. 

The  guests  had  departed.  He  had  heard  the  distant  calling 
of  voices  in  friendly  farewell,  the  rumble  of  departing  wheels. 
The  night  was  very  soft  and  mild.  He  would  go  out  and 
walk  the  gray  flags  of  the  terrace,  till  this  unworthy  restless- 
ness gave  place  to  reason  and  calm. 

Passing  along  the  narrow  passage,  he  opened  the  door  on  to 
the  garden-hall.  And  there  paused.  The  hall  itself,  and  the 
inner  side  of  the  carven  arches  of  the  arcade  were  in  dense 
shadow.  Beyond  stretched  the  terrace  bathed  in  moonlight, 
which  glittered  on  the  polished  leaves  of  the  little  orange  trees. 


42  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

on  the  leaded  panes  of  the  many  windows,  and  strangely 
transmuted  the  colours  of  the  range  of  pot-flowers  massed  be- 
neath them  along  the  base  of  the  house.  It  was  a  fairy  world 
upon  which  Julius  looked  forth.  Nor  did  it  need  suitable  in- 
habitants. Pacing  slowly  down  the  centre  of  the  terrace  came 
Richard  and  Katherine  Calmady,  hand  in  hand.  Tall,  grace- 
ful, strong  in  the  perfection  of  their  youth  and  their  great  de- 
votion, amid  that  ethereal  brightness,  they  seemed  as  two 
heroic  figures — immortal,  fairy  lovers  moving  through  the 
lovely  wonder  of  that  fairy-land.  As  they  drew  near,  Kather- 
ine stopped,  leant — with  a  superb  abandon — back  against  her 
husband,  resting  her  hand  on  his  shoulder,  drew  his  arm 
around  her  waist  for  support,  drew  his  face  down  to  her  up- 
turned face  until  their  lips  met,  while  the  moonlight  played 
upon  the  jewels  on  her  bare  arms  and  neck  and  gleamed  softly 
on  the  surface  of  her  white,  satin  dress. 

To  true  lovers  the  longest  kiss  is  all  too  sadly  short — a 
thing  brief  almost  in  proportion  to  its  sweetness.  But  to 
Julius  March,  watching  from  the  blackness  of  the  doorway,  it 
seemed  a  whole  eternity  before  Richard  Calmady  raised  his 
head.  Then  Julius  turned  and  fled  down  the  passage  and 
back  into  the  chill  study,  where  the  candles  burned  on  either 
side  the  image  of  the  Virgin  Mother  cradling  the  dead  Christ 
upon  her  knee. 

Gentle  persons,  breaking  from  the  lines  of  self-restraint, 
run  to  a  curious  violence  in  emotion.  All  day  long,  shrink 
from  it,  ignore  it,  as  he  might,  a  moral  storm  had  been  brew- 
ing. Now  it  broke.  Not  from  those  two  lovers  did  Julius 
turn  thus  in  amazement  and  terror;  but  from  just  that  from 
which  it  is  impossible  for  any  one  to  turn  in  actual  fact — 
namely  from  himself.  He  was  appalled  by  the  narrowness  of 
his  own  past  outlook;  appalled  by  the  splendour  of  that  herit- 
age which,  by  his  own  act,  he  had  forfeited.  The  cassock 
ceased,  indeed,  to  be  a  refuge,  the  welcome  livery  of  home  and 
rest.  It  had  become  a  prison-suit,  a  badge  of  slavery,  against 
which  his  whole  being  rebelled.  For  the  moment — happily 
violence  is  short-lived,  only  for  a  very  little  while  do  even  the 
gentlest  persons  "  see  red  " — asceticism  appeared  to  him  as  a 
blasphemy  against  the  order  of  nature  and  of  nature's  God. 
His  vow  of  perpetual  chastity,  made  with  so  passionate  an  en- 
thusiasm, for  the  moment  appeared  to  him  an  act  of  absolutely 


Yr        THE  CLOWN  43 

monstrous  vanity  and  self-conceit.  In  his  stupid  ignorance  he 
had  tried  to  be  wiser  than  his  Maker,  preferring  the  ordinances 
of  man,  to  the  glad  and  merciful  purposes  of  God.  In  so  do- 
ing had  he  not,  only  too  possibly,  committed  the  unpardon- 
able sin,  the  sin  against  the  Holy  Ghost  ? 

Poor  Julius,  his  thought  had  indeed  run  almost  humorously 
mad  !  Yet  it  was  characteristic  of  the  man  that  the  breaking 
of  his  self-imposed  bonds  never  occurred  to  him.  Made  in 
ignorance,  unwitnessed  though  his  vow  might  be,  it  remained 
inviolable.  He  never,  even  in  this  most  heated  hour  of  his 
trial,  doubted  that. 

Stretching  out  his  arms,  he  clenched  his  hands  in  anguish 
of  spirit.  The  sacerdotal  pride,  the  subjective  joys  of  self- 
consecration,  the  mental  luxury  of  feeling  himself  different 
from  others,  singled  out,  set  apart, — all  the  Pharisee,  in  short, 
in  Julius  March, — was  sick  to  death.  He  had  supposed  he 
was  living  to  God — and  now  it  appeared  to  him  he  had  lived 
only  to  himself.  He  had  trusted  God  too  little,  had  come 
near  reckoning  the  great  natural  laws — which,  after  all,  must 
be  of  God's  ordering — common  and  unclean.  Katherine  was 
right.  The  eternal  purpose  is  joy,  not  sorrow  ;  youth  and 
health,  not  age  and  decay  ;  thankful  acceptance,  not  fastidious 
rejection  and  fear.  Katherine — yes,  Katherine — and  there 
the  young  man's  wild  tirade  stopped  — 

He  flung  himself  down  in  front  of  the  writing-table,  lean- 
ing his  elbows  on  it,  pressing  his  face  upon  his  folded  arms. 
For  in  good  truth,  what  did  it  all  amount  to  ?  Not  outraged 
laws  of  nature,  not  sins  against  the  Holy  Ghost;  but  just 
simply  this,  that  the  common  fate  had  overtaken  him.  He 
loved  a  woman,  and  in  so  loving  had,  at  last,  found  himself. 

The  most  vital  experiences  are  beyond  language.  When 
Julius  looked  up,  his  eyes  rested  upon  the  bronze  pieta^  age- 
old  witness  to  the  sanctity  of  motherhood  and  of  suflFering 
alike.  His  face  was  wet  with  tears.  He  was  faint  and  weak ; 
yet  a  certain  calm  had  come  to  him.  He  no  longer  quarreled 
— though  his  attitude  towards  them  was  greatly  changed — 
either  with  his  priestly  calling  or  his  rashly  made  vow.  Not 
as  sources  of  pride  did  he  now  regard  them ;  but  as  searching 
discipline  to  be  borne  humbly  and  faithfully,  to  the  honour — 
as  he  prayed — both  of  earthly  and  heavenly  love.  He  loved 
Katherine,  but  he  loved  her  husband  and  that  with  the  fulness 


44  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

of  a  loyal  and  equal  friendship.  And  so  no  taint  was  upon 
his  love,  of  this  he  felt  certain.  Indeed,  he  asked  nothing 
better  than  that  things  might  continue  as  they  were  at  Brock- 
hurst  ;  and  that  he  might  continue  to  warm  his  hands  a  little 
— only  a  little — in  the  dear  sunshine  of  Richard  and  Kath- 
erine  Calmady's  perfect  love. 

As  Julius  rose  his  knees  gave  under  him.  He  rested  both 
hands  heavily  on  the  table,  looked  down,  saw  the  unsightly 
packet  of  dirty  chap-books.  Again,  and  almost  with  a  cry, 
he  prayed  that  things  might  continue  as  they  were  at  Brock- 
hurst. 

"  Give  peace  in  my  time,  oh  Lord  !  "  he  said.  Then  he 
wrapped  up  the  little  bundle  carefully,  sealed  and  labelled  it, 
and  locked  it  away  in  one  of  the  table-drawers. 

Thus,  kneeling  before  the  image  of  the  stricken  Mother 
and  the  dead  Christ,  did  Julius  March  behold  the  Vision  of 
the  New  Life.  But  the  page  of  his  diary,  on  which  surely  a 
matter  of  so  great  importance  should  have  been  duly  chron- 
icled, remains  to  this  day  a  blank. 


CHAPTER  VI 

ACCIDENT    OR    DESTINY,    ACCORDING   TO    YOUR    HUMOUR 

/^N  the  i8th  of  October  that  year,  St.  Luke's  day,  a  man 
^^      died,  and  this  was  the  manner  of  his  passing. 

There  was  nothing  more  to  be  done.  Dr.  Knott  had  gone 
out  of  the  red  drawing-room  on  the  ground  floor  into  the 
tapestry-hung  dining-room  next  door,  which  struck  cold  as 
the  small  hours  drew  on  towards  the  dawn.  And  Julius 
March,  after  reciting  the  prayer  in  which  the  Anglican 
Church  commends  the  souls  of  her  departing  children  to  the 
merciful  keeping  of  the  God  who  gave  them,  had  followed 
him.  The  doctor  was  acutely  distressed.  He  hated  to  lose  a 
patient.  He  also  hated  to  feel  emotion.  It  made  him  angry. 
Moreover,  he  was  intolerant  of  the  presence  of  the  clergy  and 
of  their  ministrations  in  sick  rooms.  He  greeted  poor  Julius 
rather  snarlingly. 

"  So  your  work's  through  as  well  as  mine,"  he  said,     "  No 


THE  CLOWN  45, 

disrespect  to  your  cloth,  Mr.  March,  but  Fm  not  altogether 
sorry.  I  dare  say  Pm  a  bit  of  a  heathen  ;  but  I  can't  help 
fancying  the  dying  know  more  of  death  and  the  way  to  meet 
it,  than  any  of  us  can  teach  them.'* 

A  group  of  men-servants  stood  about  the  open  door,  at  the 
further  end  of  the  room,  with  lies,  the  steward,  and  Mr.  Tom 
Chifney,  the  trainer  from  the  racing  stables.  The  latter  ad- 
vanced a  little  and,  clearing  his  throat,  inquired  huskily  — 

"  No  hope  at  all,  doctor  ?  " 

"  Hope  ?  "  he  returned  impatiently. — The  lamp  on  the 
great  bare  dining-table  burned  low,  and  John  Knott's  wide 
mouth,  conical  skull  and  thick,  ungainly  person  looked 
ogreish,  almost  brutal  in  the  uncertain  light. — "  There  never 
was  a  grain  of  hope  from  the  first,  except  in  Sir  Richard's  fine 
constitution.  He  is  as  sound  as  only  a  clean-living  man  of 
thirty  can  be. — I  wish  there  were  a  few  more  like  him,  though 
your  beastly  diseases  do  put  money  into  my  pocket. — That 
offered  us  a  bare  chance,  and  we  were  bound  to  act  on  that 
chance " — his  loose  lips  worked  into  a  bitterly  humorous 
smile — "  and  torture  him.  Well,  I've  seen  a  good  many  men 
under  the  knife  before  now,  and  I  tell  you  I  never  saw  one 
who  bore  himself  better.  Men  and  horses  alike,  it's  breeding 
that  tells  when  it  comes  to  the  push.  You  know  that,  eh, 
Chifney  ?  " 

In  the  red  drawing-room,  where  the  drama  of  this  sad  night 
centred,  Roger  Ormiston  had  dropped  into  a  chair  by  the  fire- 
side, his  head  sunk  on  his  chest  and  his  hands  thrust  into  his 
pockets.  He  was  very  tired,  very  miserable.  A  shocking 
thing  had  happened,  and,  in  some  degree,  he  held  himself  re- 
sponsible for  that  happening.  For  was  it  not  he  who  had 
been  so  besotted  with  the  Clown,  and  keen  about  its  training  ? 
Therefore  the  young  man  cursed  himself,  after  the  manner  of 
his  kind ;  and  cursed  his  luck,  in  that,  if  this  thing  was  to 
happen,  it  ,had  not  happened  to  him  instead  of  to  Richard 
Calmady. 

Mrs.  Denny,  the  housekeeper,  had  retired  to  a  straight- 
backed  chair  stationed  against  the  wall.  She  sat  there,  waiting 
till  the  next  call  should  come  for  her  skilful  nursing,  upright, 
her  hands  folded  upon  her  silk  apron,  her  attitude  a  model  of 
discreet  and  self-respecting  repose.  Mrs.  Denny  knew  her 
place,  and   had  a   considerable  capacity  for  letting  other  per- 


46  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

sons  know  theirs.  She  ruled  the  large  household  with  un- 
ruffled calm.  But,  to-night,  even  her  powers  of  self-control 
were  heavily  taxed ;  and  though  she  carried  her  head  high, 
she  could  not  help  tears  coursing  slowly  down  her  cheeks,  and 
falling  sadly  to  the  detriment  of  the  goiiered  frills  of  her  white, 
lawn  cross-over. 

And  Richard  Calmady,  meanwhile,  lay  still  and  very  fairly 
peaceful  upon  the  narrow  camp-bed  in  the  middle  of  the 
room.  He  had  lain  there,  save  during  one  hour, — the  memory 
of  which  haunted  Katherine  with  hideous  and  sickening  per- 
sistence,— ever  since  Tom  Chifney,  the  head-lad  from  the 
stables,  and  a  couple  of  grooms  had  carried  him  in,  on  a 
hurdle,  from  the  steeple-chase  course  four  days  ago. 

The  crimson-covered  chairs  and  sofas,  and  other  furniture 
of  the  large  square  room,  had  been  pushed  back  against  the 
walls  in  a  sort  of  orderly  confusion,  leaving  a  broad  passage- 
way between  the  doors  at  either  end,  and  a  wide  vacant  space 
round  the  bed.  At  the  head  of  this  stood  a  high,  double- 
shelved  what-not,  bearing  medicine  bottles,  cups,  basins,  rolled 
bandages,  dressings  of  rag  and  lint,  a  spirit-lamp  over  which 
simmered  a  vessel  containing  vinegar,  and  a  couple  of  shaded 
candles  in  a  tall,  branched,  silver  candlestick.  The  light  from 
these  fell,  in  intersecting  circles,  upon  the  white  bed,  upon  the 
man's  brown,  close  curled  hair,  upon  his  handsome  face — 
drawn  and  sharpened  by  suffering — and  its  rather  ghastly  three 
days'  growth  of  beard. 

It  fell,  too,  upon  Katherine,  as  she  sat  facing  her  husband, 
the  side  of  her  large  easy-chair  drawn  up  parallel  to  the  side 
of  the  bed. 

Silently,  unlooked  for,  as  a  thief  in  the  night,  the  end  of 
Katherine's  fair  world  had  come.  There  had  been  no 
time  for  forethought  or  preparation.  At  one  step  she  had 
been  called  upon  to  pass  from  the  triumph  to  the  terror  of 
mortal  life.  But  she  was  a  valiant  creature ;  and  her  natural 
courage  was  reinforced  by  the  greatness  of  her  love.  She  met 
the  blow  standing,  her  brain  clear,  her  mind  strong  to  help. 
Only  once  had  she  faltered — during  the  hideous  hour  when 
she  waited,  pacing  the  dining-room  in  the  dusk,  four  evenings 
back.  For,  after  consultation  with  Dr.  Jewsbury  and  Mr. 
Thorns  of  Westchurch,  John  Knott  had  told  her — with  a 
gentleness  and  delicacy  a  little  surprising:  in  so  hard-bitten  a 


THE  CLOWN  47 

man — that,  owing  to  the  shattered  condition  of  the  bone,  am- 
putation of  the  right  leg  was  imperative.  He  added  that,  only 
too  probably,  the  left  would  have  eventually  to  go  too.  They 
must  operate,  he  said^  and  operate  immediately.  Katherine 
had  pleaded  to  be  present;  but  Dr.  Knott  was  obdurate. 

'^  My  dear  lady,  you  don't  know  what  you  ask,"  he  said. 
"  As  you  love  him,  let  him  be.  If  you  are  there  it  will  just 
double  the  strain.  He'd  suffer  for  you  as  well  as  himself. 
Believe  me  he  will  be  far  best  alone."     ,^,^^ 

It  must  be  remembered  that  in  1842  anaesthetics  had  not 
robbed  the  operating-room  of  half  its  horrors.  The  victim 
went  to  execution  wide-awake,  with  no  mercy  of  deadened 
senses  and  dulled  brain.  And  so  Katherine  had  paced  the 
dining-room,  hearing  at  intervals,  through  the  closed  doors, 
the  short  peremptory  tones  of  the  surgeons,  fearing  she  heard 
more  and  worse  sounds  than  those.  They  were  hurting  him, 
sorely,  sorely,  dismembering  and  disfiguring  the  dear,  living 
body  which  she  loved.  A  tempest  of  unutterable  woe  swept 
over  her.  Breaking  fiercely  away  from  her  brother  and 
Denny — who  strove  to  comfort  her — she  beat  her  poor,  lovely 
head  against  the  wall.  But  that,  so  far,  had  been  her  one 
moment  of  weakness.  Since  then  she  had  fought  steadily, 
with  a  certain  lofty  cheerfulness,  for  the  life  she  so  desired  to 
save.  The  horror  of  the  second  operation  had  been  spared 
her;  but  only  because  it  might  but  too  probably  hasten,  rather 
than  retard,  the  approaching  footsteps  of  death.  Mortification 
had  set  in,  in  the  bruised  and  mangled  limb  forty-eight  hours 
ago.  And  now  the  scent  of  death  was  in  the  air.  The  awful 
presence  drew  very  near.  Yet  only  when  doctor  and  priest 
alike  rose  and  went,  when  her  brother  moved  away,  and  even 
the  faithful  housekeeper  stepped  back  from  the  bedside,  did 
Katherine's  mind  really  grasp  the  truth.  Her  well-beloved  lay 
dying;  and  human  tenderness,  human  skill,  be  they  never  so 
great,  ceased  to  avail. 

She  was  worn  by  the  long  vigil.  Her  face  was  colourless. 
Yet  perhaps  Katherine's  beauty  had  never  been  more  rare  and 
sweet  than  as  she  sat  there,  leaning  a  little  forward  in  the 
eagerness  of  her  watchfulness.  The  dark  circles  about  her 
eyes  made  them  look  very  large  and  sombre.  The  corners  of 
her  mouth  turned  down  and  her  under-lip  quivered  now  and 
then,  giving  her  expression  a  childlike  piteousness  of  appeal. 


48  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

There  was  no  trace  of  disorder  in  her  appearance.  Her  white 
dressing-gown  and  all  its  pretty  ribbons  and  laces  were  spot- 
lessly fresh.  Her  hair  was  carefully  dressed  as  usual — high  at 
the  back,  showing  the  nape  of  her  neck,  her  little  ears,  and 
the  noble  poise  of  her  head.  Katherine  was  not  one  of  those 
women  who  appear  to  imagine  that  slovenliness  is  the  proper 
exponent  of  sorrow. 

Still,  for  all  her  high  courage,  as  the  truth  came  home  to 
her,  her  spirit  began  to  falter  for  the  second  time.  It  is  com- 
paratively easy  to  endure  while  there  is  something  to  be  done ; 
but  it  is  almost  intolerable,  specially  to  the  young  when  life  is 
strong  in  them,  merely  to  sit  by  and  wait.  Katherine's  over- 
wrought nerves  began  to  play  cruel  tricks  upon  her,  carrying 
her  back  in  imagination  to  that  other  hideous  hour  of  waiting, 
in  the  dining-room,  four  evenings  ago.  Again  she  seemed  to 
hear  the  short  peremptory  tones  of  the  surgeons,  and  those 
worse  things — the  stifled  groan  of  one  in  the  extremity  of 
physical  anguish,  and  the  grate  of  a  saw.  These  maddened 
her  with  pity,  almost  with  rage.  She  feared  that  now,  as 
then,  she  might  lose  her  self-mastery  and  do  some  wild  and 
desperate  thing.  She  tried  to  keep  her  attention  fixed  on  the 
quick  irregular  rise  and  fall  of  the  linen  sheet  expressing  the 
broad,  full  curve  of  the  young  man's  chest,  as  he  lay  flat  on 
his  back,  his  eyes  closed,  but  whether  in  sleep  or  in  uncon- 
sciousness she  did  not  know.  As  long  as  the  sheet  rose  and 
fell  he  was  alive  at  all  events,  still  with  her.  But  she  was  too 
exhausted  for  any  sustained  effort  of  will ;  and  her  glance 
wandered  back  to,  and  followed  with  agonised  comprehension, 
the  formless,  motionless  elevation  and  depression  of  that  same 
sheet  towards  the  foot  of  the  bed. 

The  air  of  the  room  seemed  to  grow  more  oppressive,  the 
silence  to  deepen,  and  with  it  the  terrible  tension  of  her  mind 
increased.  Suddenly  she  started  to  her  feet.  The  logs  burn- 
ing in  the  grate  had  fallen  together  with  a  crash,  sending  a 
rush  of  ruddy  flame  and  an  innumerable  army  of  hurrying 
sparks  up  the  wide  chimney.  All  the  mouldings  of  the  ceil- 
ing— all  the  crossing  bars  and  sinuous  lines  of  the  richly- 
worked  pattern,  all  the  depending  bosses  and  roses  of  it,  ail 
the  foliations  of  the  deep  cornice — sprang  into  bold  relief, 
outlined,  splashed,  and  stained  with  living  scarlet.  And  this 
universal  redness  of  carpet,  curtains,  furniture,  and  now  of 


THE  CLOWN  49 

ceiling,  even  of  white-draped  bed,  suggested  to  Katherine's 
distracted  fancy  another  thing — unseen,  yet  known  during  her 
other  hour  of  waiting — namely  blood. 

Roused  by  the  crash  of  the  falling  logs  and  the  rustle  of 
Katherine's  garments  as  she  sprang  up,  Richard  Calmady 
opened  his  eyes.  For  a  few  seconds  his  glance  wavered  in 
vague  distress  and  perplexity.  Then  as  fuller  consciousness 
returned  of  how  it  all  was  with  him,  with  a  slight  lifting  of 
the  eyebrows  his  glance  steadied  upon  Katherine  and  he 
smiled. 

"  Ah  !  my  poor  Kitty,"  he  whispered,  "  it  takes  a  long  time, 
doesn't  it,  this  business  of  dying  ?  " 

Katherine's  evil  fancies  vanished.  As  soon  as  the  demand 
for  action  came  she  grew  calm  and  sane.  The  ceiling  and 
sheets  were  white  again  and  her  mind  was  clear. 

"  Are  you  easy,  my  dearest  ?  "  she  asked ;  "  in  less  pain  ?  " 

"  No,"  he  said, ''  no,  I'm  not  in  pain.  But  everything  seems 
to  sink  away  from  me,  and  I  float  right  out.  It's  all  dream 
and  mist — except — except  just  now  your  face." 

Katherine's  lips  quivered  too  much  for  speech.  She  moved 
swiftly  across  to  the  what-not  at  the  head  of  the  bed.  If  he 
did  not  suffer,  there  could  be  no  selfishness,  surely,  in  trying 
to  keep  death  at  bay  for  a  little  space  yet  ?  But,  alas,  with 
what  grotesquely  paltry  and  inadequate  weapons  are  all — even 
the  most  gallant — reduced  to  fighting  death  at  the  last !  Here, 
on  the  one  hand,  a  half  wine-glass  of  champagne  in  a  china 
feeding-cup,  with  a  teapot-like  spout  to  it,  or  a  few  spoonfuls 
of  jelly,  backed  by  the  passion  of  a  woman's  heart.  And,  on 
the  other  hand,  ranged  against  this  pitiful  display  of  absurdly 
limited  resources, — as  the  hosts  of  the  Philistines  against  the 
little  army  of  Israel, — resistless  laws  of  nature,  incalculably 
far-reaching  forces,  physical  and  spiritual,  the  interminable 
progression  of  cause  and  effect. 

Denny  joined  Lady  Calmady  at  the  table.  The  two  women 
held  brief  consultation.  Then  the  housekeeper  went  round  to 
the  farther  side  of  the  bed,  and  slipping  her  arm  under  the  pil- 
lows gently  raised  Richard's  head  and  shoulders,  while  Kather- 
ine kneeling  beside  him  held  the  spout  of  the  feeding-cup  to 
his  lips. 

"  Must  I  ?  I  don't  think  I  can  manage  *>  "  he  said,  dra'?'-* 
ing  away  slightly  and  closing  his  eyes. 


50  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

But  Katherlne  persisted. 

"  Oh  !  try  to  drink  it/'  she  pleaded,  "  never  mind  how  lit- 
tle— only  try.  Help  me  to  keep  you  hece  just  as  long  as  I 
can." 

The  young  man's  glance  steadied  on  to  her  once  again,  and 
his  eyes  and  lips  smiled  the  same  faint,  wholly  gracious  smile. 

"  AH  right,  my  beloved,"  he  said.  "  A  little  higher,  Denny, 
please." 

Not  without  painful  effort  and  a  choking  contraction  of  the 
throat,  he  swallowed  a  few  drops.  But  the  greater  part  of  the 
draught  spilt  out  sideways,  and  would  have  dribbled  down  on 
to  the  pillows  had  not  Katherine  held  her  handkerchief  to  his 
mouth. 

Ormiston,  who  had  been  standing  at  the  foot  of  the  bed  in 
the  hope  of  rendering  some  assistance,  ground  his  teeth  to- 
gether with  a  half-audible  imprecation,  and  went  slowly  over 
to  the  fireplace  again.  He  had  supposed  himself  as  miserable 
as  he  well  could  be  before.  But  this  incident  of  the  feeding- 
cup  was  the  climax,  somehow.  It  struck  him  as  an  intolera- 
ble humiliation  and  outrage  that  Richard  Calmady,  splendid 
fellow  as  he  was,  gifted,  high-bred  gentleman,  should,  of  all 
men,  come  to  this  sorry  pass  !  He  was  filled  with  impotent 
fury.  And  was  it  this  pass,  indeed,  he  asked  himself,  to  which 
every  human  creature  must  needs  come  one  day  ?  Would  he, 
Roger  Ormiston,  one  day,  find  himself  thus  weak  and  broken; 
his  body — now  so  lively  a  source  of  various  enjoyment — de- 
graded into  a  pest-house,  a  mere  dwelling-place  of  suffering 
and  corruption  ?  The  young  man  gripped  the  high,  narrow 
mantel-shelf  with  both  hands  and  pressed  his  forehead  down 
between  them.  He  really  had  not  the  nerve  to  watch  what 
was  going  forward  over  there  any  longer.  It  was  too  painful. 
It  knocked  all  the  manhood  out  of  him.  But  for  very  shame, 
before  those  two  calm,  devoted  women,  he  would  have  broken 
down  and  wept. 

Presently  Richard's  voice  reached  him,  feeble  yet  uncom- 
plaining. 

"  I  am  so  sorry,  but  you  see  it's  no  use,  Kitty.  The  ma- 
chinery won't  work.  Let  me  lie  flat  again,  Denny,  please. 
That's  better,  thanks." 

Then  after  a  few  moments  of  laboured  breathing,  he  added  — • 

"You  mustn't  trouble  any  more,  it  only  disappoints  you. 


Y(         THE  CLOWN  ji 

We  have  just  got  to  submit  to  fact,  my  beloved.  I've  taken 
my  last  fence.'* 

Ormiston's  shoulders  heaved  convulsively  as  he  leaned  his 
forehead  against  the  cold,  marble  edge  of  the  chimneypiece. 
His  brother-in-law's  words  brought  the  whole  dreadful  picture 
up  before  him.  Oh  !  that  cursed  slip  and  fall,  that  struggling, 
plunging,  frenzied  horse  !  And  how  the  horse  had  plunged 
and  struggled,  good  God  !  It  seemed  as  though  Chifney,  the 
grooms,  all  of  them,  would  never  get  hold  of  it  or  draw  Rich- 
ard out  from  beneath  the  pounding  hoofs.  And  then  Ormis- 
ton  went  over  his  own  share  in  the  business  again,  lamenting, 
blaming  himself.  Yet  what  more  natural,  after  all,  than  that 
he  should  have  set  his  affections  on  the  Clown  ?  Chifney  be- 
lieved in  the  horse  too — a  five-year-old  brother  of  Touch- 
stone, resembling,  in  his  black-brown  skin  and  intelligent, 
white-reach  face,  that  celebrated  horse ;  and  inheriting — less 
enviable  distinction — the  high  shoulders  and  withers  of  his  sire 
Camel,  If  the  Clown  did  not  make  a  name.  Captain  Ormis- 
ton  had  sworn,  by  all  the  gods  of  sport,  he  would  never  judge 
a  horse  again.  And,  heaven  help  us,  was  this  the  ghastly  way 
the  Clown's  name  was  to  be  made  then  ? 

The  room  grew  very  quiet  again,  save  for  a  strange  gur- 
gling, rattling  sound  Richard  Calmady  made,  at  times,  in  breath- 
ing. Mrs.  Denny  had  retired  beyond  the  circle  of  firelight. 
And  Katherine,  having  drawn  her  chair  a  little  further  for- 
ward, so  that  the  foot  of  the  bed  might  be  out  of  sight,  sat 
holding  her  husband's  hand,  softly  caressing  his  wrist  and  palm 
with  her  finger-tips.  Soon  the  slow  movement  of  her  fingers 
ceased,  while  she  felt,  in  quick  fear,  for  the  fluttering,  inter- 
mittent pulse.  Richard's  breathing  had  become  more  difficult. 
He  moved  his  head  restlessly  and  plucked  at  the  sheet  with  his 
right  hand.     It  was  a  little  more  than  flesh  and  blood  could  bear. 

Katherine  called  to  him  softly  under  her  breath, — "  Rich- 
ard, Dick,  my  darling." 

"All  right,  I'm  coming." 

He  opened  his  eyes  wide,  as  in  sudden  terror. 

"  Oh  !  I  say  though,  what's  happened  ?     Where  am  I  ?  " 

Katherine  leant  down,  kissed  his  hand,  caressed  it. 

"  Here,  my  dearest,"  she  said,  ^'  at  home,  at  Brockhurst, 
with  me." 

"  Ah  yes  !  "  he  said,  "  of  course,  I  remember,  I'm  dying." 


52  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

He  waited  a  little  space,  and  then,  turning  his  head  on  the 
pillow  so  as  to  have  a  better  view  of  her,  spoke  again : — "  I 
was  floating  right  out — the  under-tow  had  got  me — it  was 
sucking  me  down  into  the  deep  sea  of  mist  and  dreams.  I  was 
so  nearly  gone — and  you  brought  me  back." 

"  But  I  wanted  you  so — I  wanted  you  so,"  Katherine  cried, 
smitten  with  sudden  contrition.  "I  could  not  help  it.  Do 
you  mind  ?  " 

"  You  silly  sweet,  could  I  ever  mind  coming  back  to  you  ?  '* 
he  asked  wistfully.  "  Don't  you  suppose  I  would  much  rather 
stay  here  at  Brockhurst,  at  home,  with  you — than  sink  away 
into  the  unknown  ?  " 

"  Ah  !  my  dear,"  she  said,  swaying  herself  to  and  fro  in  the 
misery  of  tearless  grief. 

"  And  yet  I  have  no  call  to  complain,"  he  went  on.  "  I 
have  had  thirty  years  of  life  and  health.  It  is  not  a  small 
thing  to  have  seen  the  sun,  and  to  have  rejoiced  in  one's 
youth.  And  I  have  had  you  " — his  face  hardened  and  his 
breath  came  short — "you,  most  enchanting  of  women." 

"  My  dear,  my  dear !  "  Katherine  cried,  again  bowing  her 
head. 

"  God  has  been  so  good  to  me  here  that — I  hope  it  is  not 
presumptuous — I  can't  be  much  afraid  of  what  is  to  follow. 
The  best  argument  for  what  will  be,  is  what  has  been.  Don't 
you  think  so  ?  " 

"  But  you  go  and  I  stay,"  she  said.  "  If  I  could  only  go  too, 
go  with  you." 

Richard  Calmady  raised  himself  in  the  bed,  looked  hard  at 
her,  spoke  as  a  man  in  the  fulness  of  his  strength. 

"  Do  you  mean  that  ?  Would  you  come  with  me  if  you 
could — come  through  the  deep  sea  of  mist  and  dreams,  to 
whatever  lies  beyond  ?  " 

For  all  answer  Katherine  bent  lower,  her  face  suddenly  ra- 
diant, notwithstanding  its  pallor.  Sorrow  was  still  so  new  a 
companion  to  her  that  she  would  dare  the  most  desperate  ad- 
ventures to  rid  herself  of  its  hateful  presence.  Her  reason 
and  moral  sense  were  in  abeyance,  only  her  poor  heart  spoke. 
She  laid  hold  of  her  husband's  hands  and  clasped  them  about 
her  throat. 

"  Let  us  go  together,  take  me,"  she  prayed.  "  I  love  you, 
I  will  not  be  left.     Closer,  Dick,  closer." 


THE  CLOWN  53 

*'  Thank  God  !  I  am  strong  enough  even  yet,"  he  said 
fiercely,  while  his  jaw  set,  and  his  grasp  tightened  somewhat 
dangerously  upon  her  throat.  Katherine  looked  into  his  eyes 
and  laughed.     The  blood  was  tingling  through  her  veins. 

"  Ah  !  dear  love/'  she  panted,  ^^  if  you  knew  how  delicious 
it  is  to  be  a  little  hurt ! " 

But  her  ecstasy  was  short-lived,  as  ecstasy  usually  is.  Rich- 
ard Calmady  unclasped  his  hands  and  dropped  back  against 
the  pillows,  putting  her  away  from  him  with  a  certain 
authority. 

"  My  beloved  one,  do  not  tempt  me,*'  he  said,  "  we  must 
remember  the  child.  The  devil  of  jealousy  is  very  great, 
even  when  one  lies,  as  I  do  now,  more  than  half  dead."  He 
turned  his  head  away,  and  his  voice  shook.  "Ten  years 
hence,  twenty  years  hence,  you  Vv  Jl  be  as  beautiful — more  so, 
very  likely — than  ever.     Other  men  will  see  you,  and  I " 

"You  will  be  just  what  you  were  and  always  have  been  to 
me,'*  Katherine  interrupted.     "  I  love  you,  and  shall  love." 

She  answered  bravely,  taking  his  hand  again  and  caressing 
it,  while  he  looked  round  and  smiled  at  her.  But  she  grew 
curiously  cold.  She  shivered,  and  had  a  difficulty  in  control- 
ing  her  speech.  Her  new  companion.  Sorrow,  refused  to  be 
tricked  and  to  leave  her,  and  the  breath  of  sorrow  is  as  sharp 
as  a  wind  blowing  over  ice. 

"  You  have  made  me  perfectly  content,"  Richard  Calmady 
said  presently.  "There  is  nothing  I  would  have  changed. 
No  hour  of  day — or  night — ah,  my  God  !  my  God  ! — which  I 
could  ask  to  have  otherwise."  He  paused,  fighting  a  sob 
which  rose  in  his  throat.     ^' Still  you  are  quite  young " 

"  So  much  the  worse  for  me,"  Katherine  said. 

"  Oh !  I  don't  know  about  that,"  he  put  in  quietly. 
"  Anyhow,  remember  that  you  are  free,  absolutely  and  uncon- 
ditionally free.  I  hold  a  man  a  cur  who,  in  dying,  tries  to 
bind  the  woman  he  loves." 

Katherine  shivered.     Despair  had  possession  of  her. 

"  Why  reason  about  it  ?  "  she  asked.  "  Don't  you  see  that 
to  be  bound  is  the  only  comfort  I  shall  have  left  ?  " 

"My  poor  darling,"  Richard  Calmady  almost  groaned. 

His  own  helplessness  to  help  her  cut  him  to  the  quick. 
Wealth,  and  an  inherent  graciousness  of  disposition,  had 
always  made  it  so  simple  to  be  of  service  and  of  comfort  to 


54  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

those  about  him.  It  was  so  natural  to  rule,  to  decide,  to  alle- 
viate, to  give  little  trouble  to  others  and  take  a  good  deal  of 
trouble  on  their  behalf,  that  his  present  and  final  incapacity  in 
any  measure  to  shield  even  Katherine,  the  woman  he  wor- 
shipped, amazed  him.  Not  pain,  not  bodily  disfigurement, — 
though  he  recoiled,  as  every  sane  being  must,  from  these, — 
not  death  itself,  tried  his  spirit  so  bitterly  as  his  own  useless- 
ness.  All  the  pleasant,  kindly  activities  of  common  inter- 
course were  over.  He  was  removed  alike  from  good  deeds 
and  from  bad.  He  had  ceased  to  have  part  or  lot  in  the 
affairs  of  living  men.  The  desolation  of  impotence  was  upon 
him. 

For  a  little  time  he  lay  very  still,  looking  up  at  the  firelight 
playing  upon  the  mouldings  of  the  ceiling,  trying  to  reconcile 
himself  to  this.  His  mind  was  clear,  yet,  except  when  actu- 
ally speaking,  he  found  it  difficult  to  keep  his  attention  fixed. 
Images,  sensations  began  to  chase  each  other  across  his  mental 
field  of  vision ;  and  his  thought,  though  definite  as  to  detail, 
grew  increasingly  broken  and  incoherent,  small  matters  in  un- 
seemly fashion  jostling  great.  He  wondered  concerning  those 
first  steps  of  the  disembodied  spirit,  when  it  has  crossed  the 
threshold  of  death  ;  and  then,  incontinently,  he  passed  to 
certain  time-honoured  jokes  and  impertinent  follies  at  Eton, 
over  which  he,  and  Roger  and  Major  St.  Quentin  had  laughed 
a  hundred  times.  They  amused  him  greatly  even  yet.  But 
he  could  not  linger  with  them.  He  was  troubled  about  the 
attics  of  the  new  lodge,  now  in  building  at  the  entrance  to  the 
east  woods.  The  windows  were  too  small,  and  he  disliked 
that  blind  north  gable.  There  were  letters  to  be  answered 
too.  Lord  Fallowfeild  wanted  to  know  about  something — he 
could  not  remember  what — Fallowfeild's  inquiries  had  a  habit 
of  being  vague.  And  through  all  these  things — serious  or 
trivial — a  terrible  yearning  over  Katherine  and  her  baby — the 
new,  little,  human  life  which  was  his  own  life,  and  which  yet 
he  would  never  know  or  see.  And  through  all  these  things 
also,  the  perpetual,  heavy  ache  of  those  severed  nerves  and 
muscles,  flitting  pains  in  the  limb  of  which,  though  it  was 
gone,  he  had  not  ceased  to  be  aware. — He  dozed  off,  and 
mortal  weakness  closed  down  on  him,  floating  him  out  and 
out  into  vague  spaces.  And  then  suddenly,  once  more,  he 
felt  a  horse  under  him  and  gripped  it  with  bis  knees.     He 


THE  CLOWN  55 

was  riding,  riding,  whole  and  vigorous,  with  the  summer  wind 
in  his  face,  across  vast,  flowering  pastures  towards  a  great  light 
on  the  far  horizon,  which  streamed  forth,  as  he  knew,  from 
the  throne  of  Almighty  God. 

Choking,  with  the  harsh  rattle  in  his  throat,  he  awoke  to 
the  actual  and  immediate — to  the  familiar  square  room  and  its 
crimson  furnishings,  to  Katherine's  sweet,  pale  face  and  the 
touch  of  her  caressing  fingers,  to  some  one  standing  beside  her, 
whom  he  did  not  immediately  recognise.  It  was  Roger — 
Roger  worn  with  watching,  grown  curiously  older.  But  a 
certain  exhilaration,  born  of  that  strange  ride,  remained  by 
Richard  Calmady.  Both  ache  of  body  and  distress  of  mind 
had  abated.  He  felt  a  lightness  of  spirit ;  an  eagerness,  as  of 
one  setting  forth  on  a  promised  journey,  who — not  unlovingly, 
yet  with  something  of  haste — makes  his  dispositions  before  he 
starts. 

"  Look  here,  darling,"  he  said,  "  you'll  let  the  stables  go  on 
just  as  usual.  Chifney  will  take  over  the  whole  management 
of  them.  You  can  trust  him  implicitly.  And — that  is  you, 
Roger,  isn't  it  ? — you'll  keep  an  eye  on  things,  won't  you,  so 
that  Kitty  shall  have  no  bother  ?  I  should  like  to  know  noth- 
ing was  changed  at  the  stables.  They've  been  a  great  hobby 
of  mine,  and  if — if  the  baby  is  a  boy,  he  may  take  after  me 
and  care  for  them.  Make  him  ride  straight,  Roger.  And 
teach  him  to  care  for  sport  for  its  own  sake,  dear  old  man,  as  a 
a  gentleman  should,  not  for  the  money  that  may  come  out  of  it." 

He  waited,  struggling  for  breath,  then  his  hand  closed  on 
Katherine's. 

"  I  must  go,"  he  said.  '^  You'll  call  the  boy  after  me, 
Kitty,  won't  you  ?  I  want  there  to  be  another  Richard  Cal- 
paady.  My  life  has  been  very  happy,  so,  please  God,  the 
name  will  bring  luck." 

A  spasm  took  him,  and  he  tried  convulsively  to  push  off 
the  sheet.  Katherine  was  down  on  her  knees,  her  right  arm 
under  his  head,  while  with  her  left  hand  she  stripped  the  bed- 
clothes away  from  his  chest  and  bared  his  throat. 

"Denny,  Denny!"  she  cried,  "come — tell  me — is  this 
death  ? " 

And  Ormiston,  impelled  by  an  impulse  he  could  hardly 
have  explained,  crossed  the  room,  dragged  back  the  heavy  cur- 
tains, and  flung  one  of  the  casements  wide  open. 


56  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

The  soft  light  of  autumn  dawn  flowed  in  through  the  great 
mullioned  window,  quenching  the  redness  of  fire  and  candles, 
spreading,  dim  and  ghostly,  over  the  white  dress  and  bowed 
head  of  the  woman,  over  the  narrow  bed  and  the  form  of  the 
maimed  and  dying  man.  The  freshness  of  the  morning  air, 
laden  with  the  soothing  murmur  of  the  fir  forest  swaying  in 
the  breath  of  a  mild  westerly  breeze,  laden  too  with  the  moist 
fragrance  of  the  moorland,  of  dewy  grass,  of  withered  bracken 
and  fallen  leaves,  flowed  in  also,  cleansing  the  tainted  atmos- 
phere of  the  room.  While,  from  the  springy  turf  of  the 
green  ride — which* runs  eastward,  parallel  to  the  lime  avenue 
— came  the  thud  and  suck  of  hoofs  and  the  voices  of  the 
stable  boys,  as  they  rode  the  long  string  of  dancing,  snorting 
race-horses  out  to  the  training  ground  for  their  morning 
exercise. 

Richard  Calmady  opened  his  eyes  wide. 

"Ah,  it's  daylight !  "  he  cried,  in  accents  of  joy  fulness.  "  I 
am  glad.  Kiss  me,  my  beloved,  kiss  me. — You  dear — yes, 
once  more.  I  have  had  such  a  queer  night.  I  dreamt  I  had 
been  fearfully  knocked  about  somehow,  and  was  crippled,  and 
in  pain.  It  is  good  to  wake,  and  find  you,  and  know  I'm 
all  right  after  all.  God  keep  you,  my  dearest,  you  and  the 
boy.  I  am  longing  to  see  him — but  not  just  now — let  Denny 
bring  him  later.  And  tell  them  to  send  Chifney  word  I  shall 
not  be  out  to  see  the  gallops  this  morning.  I  really  believe 
those  dreams  half  frightened  me.  I  feel  so  absurdly  used  up. 
And  then — Kitty,  where  are  you  ? — put  your  arms  round  me 
and  I'll  go  to  sleep  again." 

He  smiled  at  her  quite  naturally  and  stroked  her  cheek. 

"  My  sweet,  your  face  is  all  wet  and  cold ! "  he  said. 
"  Make  Richard  a  good  boy.     After  all  that  is  what  matters 

most — Julius  will  help  you Ah  1  look  at  the  sunrise — 

why — why " 

An  extraordinary  change  passed  over  him.  To  Katherine 
It  seemed  like  the  upward  leap  of  a  livid  flame.  Then  his 
head  fell  back  and  his  jaw  dropped. 


THE  CLOWN  ST 


CHAPTER  Vn 

.iRS.    WILLIAM    ORMISTON    SACRIFICES    A    WINE-GLASS    TO  FATE 

A/TRS.  ST.  QUENTIN'S  health  became  increasingly  frag- 
ile  that  autumn;  and  the  weight  of  the  sorrow  which 
had  fallen  upon  Brockhurst  bowed  her  to  the  earth.  Her  de- 
sire was  to  go  to  Lady  Calmady,  wrap  her  about  with  tender- 
ness and  strengthen  her  in  patience.  But,  though  the  spirit 
was  willing,  the  flesh  was  weak.  Daily  she  assured  Madem- 
oiselle de  Mirancourt  that  she  was  better,  that  she  would  be 
able  to  start  for  England  in  the  course  of  the  next  week.  Yet 
day  after  day,  week  after  week  passed  by,  and  still  the  two 
ladies  lingered  in  the  pretty  apartment  of  the  rue  de  Rennes. 
Day  by  day,  and  week  by  week,  moreover,  the  elder  lady^ 
grew  more  feeble,  left  her  bed  later  in  the  morning,  sought  it 
earlier  at  night,  finally  resigned  the  attempt  to  leave  it  at  all. 
The  keepers  of  Lucia  St.  Quentin's  house  of  life  trembled^ 
desire — even  of  gentle  ministries — began  to  fail,  the  sound  of 
the  grinding  was  low.  Yet  neither  she,  nor  her  lifelong 
friend,  nor  her  doctor,  nor  the  few  intimate  acquaintances  wha 
were  still  privileged  to  visit  her,  admitted  that  she  would  never 
go  forth  on  that  journey  to  England  at  all ;  but  only  on  that 
quite  other  journey, — upon  which  Richard  Calmady  had  al- 
ready set  forth  in  the  fulness  of  his  manhood, — and  upon 
which,  the  manifold  uncertainties  of  human  existence  notwith- 
standing, we  are,  each  one  of  us,  so  perfectly  certain  to  set 
forth  at  last.  Silently  they  agreed  with  her  to  treat  her  in- 
creasing weakness  with  delicate  stoicism,  to  speak  of  it — if  at 
all — merely  as  a  passing  iiidisposition,  so  allowing  no  dreary, 
lamentable  element  to  obtrude  itself.  Sad  Mrs.  St.  Quentin 
might  be,  bitterly  sad  at  heart,  perplexed  by  the  rather  incom- 
prehensible dealings  of  God  with  man.  Yet,  to  the  end,  she 
would  remain  charming,  gently  gay  even,  both  out  of  consid- 
eration for  others  and  a  fine  self-respect,  since  she  held  it  the 
mark  of  a  cowardly  and  ignoble  nature  to  let  anything  squalid 
appear  in  her  attitude  towards  grief,  old  age,  or  death. 


S'R  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

But  Brockhurst  she  would  never  see  again.  The  way  was 
too  great  for  her.  And  so  it  came  about  that  when  Lady 
Calmady's  child  was  born,  towards  the  end  of  the  following 
March,  no  more  staid  and  responsible  woman  creature  of  her 
family  was  at  hand  to  support  her  than  that  lively,  young  lady, 
her  brother,  William  Ormiston's  wife. 

Meanwhile,  the  parish  of  Sandyiield  rejoiced.  Thomas 
Caryll,  the  rector,  had  caused  the  church  bells  to  be  rung  im- 
mediately on  receipt  of  the  good  news  ;  while  he  selected,  as 
text  for  his  Sunday  morning  sermon,  those  words,  usually  re- 
served to  another  and  somewhat  greater  advent — "  For  unto 
iis  a  child  is  born,  unto  us  a  son  is  given."  Good  Mr.  Caryll 
was  innocent  of  the  remotest  intention  of  profanity.  But  his 
outlook  was  circumscribed,  his  desire  to  please  abnormally 
large,  and  his  sense  of  relative  values  slight.  While  that 
Lady  Calmady  should  give  birth  to  a  son  and  heir  was,  after 
all,  a  matter  of  no  small  moment — locally  considered  at  all 
events. 

Brockhurst  House  rejoiced  also,  yet  it  did  so  not  without  a 
measure  of  trembling.  For  there  had  been  twenty-four  hours 
of  acute  anxiety  regarding  Katherine  Calmady.  And  even 
now,  on  the  evening  of  the  second  day,  although  Dr.  Knott 
declared  himself  satisfied  both  as  to  her  condition  and  that  of 
the  baby,  an  air  of  mystery  surrounded  the  large  state-bed- 
room,— where  she  lay,  white  and  languid,  slowly  feeling  her 
way  back  to  the  ordinary  conditions  of  existence, — and  the 
nursery  next  door.  Mrs.  Denny,  who  had  taken  possession 
by  right  divine  of  long  and  devoted  service,  not  only  did  not 
encourage,  but  positively  repulsed  visitors.  Her  ladyship  must 
not  be  disturbed.  She,  the  nurse,  the  baby,  in  turn,  were 
sleeping.  According  to  Denny  the  god  of  sleep  reigned  su- 
preme in  those  stately,  white-paneled  chambers,  looking 
away,  across  the  valley  and  the  long  lines  of  the  elm  avenue, 
to  the  faint  blue  of  the  chalk  downs  rising  against  the  south- 
•ern  sky. 

John  Knott  had  driven  over,  for  the  second  time  that  day, 
in  the  windy  March  sunset.  He  fell  in  very  readily  with 
Mrs.  Ormiston's  suggestion  that  he  should  remain  to  dinner. 
That  young  lady's  spirits  were  sensibly  on  the  rise.  It  is  true 
that  she  had  wept  copiously  at  intervals  while  her  sister-in- 
law's  life  appeared  to  be  in  danger — keeping  at  the  same  time 


THE  CLOWN  59 

as  far  from  the  sick  room  as  the  ample  limits  of  Brockhurst 
House  allowed,  and  wishing  herself  a  thousand  and  one  times. 
safe  back  in  Paris,  where  her  devoted  and  obedient  husband 
occupied  a  subordinate  post  at  the  English  Embassy.  But 
Mrs.  Ormiston^s  tears  were  as  easily  staunched  as  set  flowing*. 
And  now,  in  her  capacity  of  hostess,  with  three  gentlemen — 
or  rather  "  two  and  a  half,  for  you  can't,"  as  she  remarked, 
^'  count  a  brother-in-law  for  a  whole  one  " — as  audience,  she 
felt  remarkably  cheerful.  She  had  been  over  to  Newlands 
during  the  afternoon,  and  insisted  on  Mary  Cathcart  return- 
ing with  her — Mrs.  Ormiston  was  a  Desmolyns*  The  Cath- 
carts  are  distantly  connected  with  that  family.  And,  whea 
the  girl  had  protested  that  this  was  hardly  a  suitable  moment 
for  a  visit  to  Brockhurst,  Charlotte  Ormiston  had  replied,  with 
tbat  hint  of  a  brogue  which  gave  her  ready  speech  its  almost 
rollicking  character : — 

"  But,  my  dear  child,  propriety  demands  it*  I  depart  my- 
self to-morrow.  And  now  that  we're  recovering  our  tone  I 
daren't  be  left  with  such  a  houseful  of  men  on  my  hands  any 
longer.  While  we  were  tearing  our  hair  over  poor  Kitty's 
possible  demise,  and  agonising  as  to  the  uncertain  sex  of  the 
baby,  it  did  not  matter.  But  now  even  that  dear  creature^ 
Saint  Julius,  is  beginning  to  pick  up,  and  looks  less  as  if  his. 
diet  was  mouldy  peas  and  his  favourite  plaything  a  cat-o'-nine- 
tails. Scourge  ? — Yes,  of  course,  but  it's  all  the  same  in  the 
application  of  the  instrument,  you  know.  And  then  in  your 
secret  soul,  Mary  dear/'  she  added,  not  unkindly,  "  there's  na 
denying  it's  far  from  obnoxious  to  you  to  spend  a  trifle  of 
time  in  the  society  of  Roger." 

Mrs.  Ormiston  carried  her  point.  It  may  be  stated,  in^ 
passing,  that  this  sprightly,  young  matron  was  brilliantly 
pretty,  though  her  facial  angle  might  be  deemed  too  acute, 
leaving  somewhat  to  be  desired  in  the  matter  of  forehead  and 
of  chin.  She  was  plump,  graceful,  and  neat  waisted.  Her 
skin  was  exquisitely  white  and  fine,  and  a  charming  colour 
flushed  her  cheeks  under  excitement.  Her  hair  was  always 
untidy,  her  hairpins  displaying  abnormal  activity  in  respect  of 
escape  and  independent  action.  Her  eyes  were  round  and 
very  prominent,  suggestive  of  highly-polished,  brown  agates* 
She  was  not  the  least  shy  or  averse  to  attracting  attention- 
She  laughed  much,  and  practised,  as  prelude  to  her  laughter^ 


6b  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

an  impudently,  coquettish,  little  stare.  And  finally,  as  he  sat 
on  her  right  at  dinner,  her  rattling  talk  and  lightness  of  calibre 
generally  struck  John  Knott  as  rather  cynically  inadequate  to 
the  demands  made  by  her  present  position.  Not  that  he  under- 
rated her  good  nature  or  was  insensible  to  her  personal  attrac- 
tions. But  the  doctor  was  in  search  of  an  able  coadjutor  just 
then,  blessed  with  a  steady  brain  and  a  tongue  skilled  in  tender 
diplomacies.  For  there  were  trying  things  to  be  said  and 
done,  and  he  needed  a  woman  of  a  fine  spirit  to  do  and  say 
them  aright. 

"Head  like  an  eft,"  he  said  to  himself,  as  course  followed 
<:ourse,  and,  while  bandying  compliments  with  her,  he 
watched  and  listened.  "As  soon  set  a  harlequin  to  lead  a  for- 
lorn hope.  Well  it's  to  be  trusted  her  husband's  some  use  for 
her — that's  more  than  I  have  anyhow,  so  the  sooner  we  see 
her  off  the  premises  the  better.  Suppose  I  shall  have  to  fall 
back  on  Ormiston.  Bit  of  a  rake,  I  expect,  though  in  looks 
lie  is  so  curiously  like  that  beautiful,  innocent,  young  thing  up- 
stairs.    Wonder  how  he'll  take  it  ?     No  mistake,  it's  a  facer !  " 

Dr.  Knott  settled  himself  back  squarely  in  his  chair  and 
pushed  his  cheese-plate  away  from  him,  while  his  shaggy  eye- 
brows drew  together  as  he  fixed  his  eyes  on  the  young  man  at 
the  head  of  the  table. 

"A  facer!"  he  repeated  to  himself.  "Yes,  the  ancients 
Jcnew  what  they  were  about  in  these  awkward  matters.  The 
^modern  conscience  is  disastrously  anaemic." 

Although  it  looks  on  to  the  terrace,  the  dining-room  at 
Brockhurst  is  among  the  least  cheerful  of  the  living  rooms. 
The  tapestry  with  which  it  is  hung — representing  French 
hunting  scenes,  each  panel  set  in  a  broad  border  pattern  of 
birds,  fruits  and  leaves,  interspersed  with  classic  urns  and 
medallions — is  worked  in  neutral  tints  of  brown,  blue,  and 
gray.  The  chimneypiece,  reaching  the  whole  height  of  the 
wall,  is  of  liver-coloured  marble.  At  the  period  in  question, 
it  was  still  the  fashion  to  dine  at  the  modestly  early  hour  of 
six  ;  and,  the  spring  evenings  being  long,  the  curtains  had 
l)een  left  undrawn,  so  that  the  dying  daylight  without  and  the 
-lamplight  within  contended  rather  mournfully  for  mastery, 
while  a  wild,  southeasterly  wind,  breaking  in  gusts  against 
the  house  front,  sobbed  at  the  casements  and  made  a  loose 
ipane,  here  and  there,  click  and  rattle. 


THE  CLOWN  6i 

And  it  was  in  the  midst  of  a  notably  heavy  gust,  when  des- 
sert had  been  served  and  the  servants  had  left  the  room,  that 
Captain  Ormiston  leaned  across  the  table  and  addressed  his 
sister-in-law. 

The  young  soldier  had  been  somewhat  gloomy  and  silent 
during  dinner.  He  was  vaguely  anxious  about  Lady  Caimady.- 
The  news  of  Mrs.  St.  Quentin  was  critical,  and  he  cherished 
a  very  true  affection  for  his  great-aunt.  Had  she  not  been  his^ 
confidant  ever  since  his  first  term  at  Eton  ?  Had  she  not> 
moreover,  helped  him  on  several  occasions  when  creditors  dis- 
played an  incomprehensibly  foolish  pertinacity  regarding  pay^ 
ment  for  goods  supplied  ?  He  was  burdened,  too,  by  a 
prospective  sense  of  his  own  uncommon  righteousness.  For^ 
during  the  past  five  months,  while  he  had  been  on  leave  at 
Brockhurst,  assisting  Katherine  to  master  the  details  of  the 
very  various  business  of  the  estate,  Ormiston  had  revised  his 
position  and  decided  on  heroic  measures  of  reform.  He  would 
rid  himself  of  debt,  forswear  expensive  London  habits,  and 
those  many  pleasant  iniquities  which  every  great  city  offers 
liberally  to  such  handsome,  fine  gentlemen  as  himself.  He 
actually  proposed,  just  so  soon  as  Katherine  could  conveni- 
ently spare  him,  to  decline  from  the  splendid  inactivity  of  the 
Guards,  upon  the  hard  work  of  some  line  regiment  under  or- 
ders for  foreign  service.  Ormiston  was  quite  affected  by  con- 
templation of  his  own  good  resolutions.  He  appeared  to  him- 
self in  a  really  pathetic  light.  He  would  like  to  have  told 
Mary  Cathcart  all  about  it  and  have  claimed  her  sympathy  and 
admiration.  But  then,  she  was  just  precisely  the  person  he 
could  not  tell,  until  the  said  resolutions  had,  in  a  degree  at  alj. 
events,  passed  into  accomplished  fact !  For — as  not  infre- 
quently happens — it  was  not  so  much  a  case  of  being  oif  with 
the  old  love  before  being  on  with  the  new;  as  being  off  with 
the  intermediate  loves,  before  being  on  with  the  old  one  again. 
To  announce  his  estimable  future,  was,  by  implication  at  all 
events,  to  confess  a  not  wholly  estimable  past.  And  so  Roger 
Ormiston,  sitting  that  night  at  dinner  beside  the  object  of  his 
best  and  most  honest  afi^ections,  proved  but  poor  company ;. 
and  roused  himself,  not  without  effort,  to  say  to  his  sister-in- 
law  :  — 

"  It's  about  time  to  perform  the  ceremony  of  the  evenings 
isn't  it,  Ella,  and  drink  that  small  boy's  health  i '' 


62  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

^  ''  By  all  Tnanner  of  means.  I'm  all  for  the  observance  of 
ancient  forms  and  ceremonies.  You  can  never  be  sure  how 
much  mayn't  lie  at  the  bottom  of  them,  and  it's  best  to  be  on 
the  safe  side  of  the  unseen  powers.  You'll  agree  to  that  now, 
Mr.  March,  won't  you  ?  " — She  took  a  grape  skin  from  be- 
tween her  neat  teeth  and  flicked  it  out  on  to  her  plate. — "  So, 
for  myself,"  she  went  on,  "  I  curtsy  nine  times  to  the  new 
moon,  though  the  repeated  genuflexion  is  perniciously  likely  to 
give  me  the  backache ;  touch  my  hat  in  passing  to  the  mag- 
pies ;  wish  when  I  behold  a  piebald ;  and  bless  my  neighbour 
devoutly  if  he  sneezes." 

At  the  commencement  of  this  harangue  she  met  her  brother- 
in-law's  rather  depreciative  scrutiny  with  her  bold  little  stare 
— in  his  present  mood  Ormiston  found  her  vivacity  tedious, 
though  he  was  usually  willing  enough  to  laugh  at  her  extrava- 
gancies— then  she  whipped  Julius  in  with  a  side  glance,  and 
concluded  with  her  round  eyes  set  on  Dr.  Knott's  rough-hewn 
and  weather-beaten  countenance. 

"  I'm  afraid  you  are  disgracefully  superstitious,  Mrs.  Ormis- 
ton," the  latter  remarked. 

She  was  a  feather-headed  chatterbox,  he  reflected ;  but  her 
chatter  served  to  occupy  the  time.  And  the  doctor  was  by  no 
means  anxious  the  time  should  pass  too  rapidly.  He  felt 
slightly  self-contemptuous;  but  in  good  truth  he  would  be  glad 
to  put  away  some  few^  glasses  of  sound  port  before  administer- 
ing the  aforementioned  facer  to  Captain  Ormiston. 

"Superstitious?"  she  returned.  "Well  I  trust  my  super- 
stition is  not  chronic,  but  nicely  intermittent  like  all  the  rest 
of  my  many  virtues.  Charity  begins  at  home,  you  know,  and 
I  would  not  like  to  keep  any  of  the  poor,  dear  creatures  on 
guard  too  long  for  fear  of  tiring  them  out.  But  I  give  every 
one  of  them  a  turn.  Dr.  Knott,  I  assure  you." 

"And  that's  more  than  most  of  us  do,"  he  said,  smiling 
rather  savagely.  ^'The  majority  of  my  acquaintance  have  a 
handsome  power  of  self-restraint  in  the  practice  of  virtue." 

"And  I'm  the  happy  exception  !  Well,  now  that's  an  alto- 
gether pretty  speech,"  Mrs.  Ormiston  cried,  laughing.     "  But 

to  return  to  the  matter  in  hand,  to  this  hero  of  a  baby I 

dote  on  babies.  Dr.  Knott.  I've  one  o:  my  own  of  six  months 
old,  and  she's  a  charming  child  I  assure  you." 

"I  don't  doubt  that  for  an  instant,  having  the  honour  of 


THE  CLOWN  6j 

knowing  her  mother.  Couldn't  be  otherwise  than  charming  if 
she  tried,"  the  doctor  said,  reaching  out  his  hand  again  to  the 
decanter. 

Mrs.  Ormiston  treated  him  to  her  little  stare,  and  then, 
looked  round  the  table,  putting  up  one  plump,  bare  arm  as  she 
pushed  in  a  couple  of  hairpins. 

"Ah!  but  she's  a  real  jewel  of  a  child,"  she  said  auda- 
ciously. "  She's  the  comfort  of  my  social  existence.  For 
she  doesn't  resemble  me  in  the  least,  and  therefore  my  reputa- 
tion's everlastingly  safe,  thanks  to  her.  Why,  before  the  ca- 
lumniating thought  has  had  time  to  arise  in  your  mind,  one  look 
in  that  child's  face  will  dissipate  it,  she's  so  entirely  the  image 
of  her  father." 

There  was  a  momentary  silence,  but  for  the  sobbing  of  the 
gale  and  rattling  of  the  casements.  Then  Captain  Ormiston. 
broke  into  a  rather  loud  laugh.  Even  if  they  sail  near  the 
wind,  you  must  stand  by  the  women  of  your  family. 

"Come,  that  will  do,  I  think,  Ella,"  he  said.  "You  won't 
beat  that  triumphant  bull  in  a  hurry." 

"But,  my  dear  boy,  so  she  is.  Even  at  her  present  tender 
age,  she's  the  living  picture  of  your  brother  William." 

"  Oh  !  poor  William,"  Roger  said  hastily. 

He  turned  to  Mary  Cathcart.  The  girl  had  blushed  up  to 
the  roots  of  her  crisp,  black  hair.  She  did  not  clearly  under- 
stand the  other  woman's  speech,  nor  did  she  wish  to  do  so. 
She  was  admirably  pure-minded.  But  like  all  truly  pure- 
minded  persons,  she  carried  a  touchstone  that  made  her  recoil,, 
directly  and  instinctively,  from  that  which  was  of  doubtful 
quality.  The  twinkle  in  Dr.  Knott's  gray  eyes,  as  he  sipped 
his  port,  still  more  the  tone  of  Roger  Ormiston's  laugh,  she 
did  understand  somehow.  And  this  last  jarred  upon  her 
cruelly.  It  opened  the  flood-gates  of  doubt  which  Mary — like 
so  many  another  woman  in  respect  of  the  man  she  loves — had 
striven  very  valiantly  to  keep  shut.  All  manner  of  hints  as  ta 
his  indiscretions,  all  manner  of  half-told  tales  as  to  his  debts, 
his  extravagance,  which  rumour  had  conveyed  to  her  unwill- 
ing ears,  seemed  suddenly  to  gather  weight  and  probability, 
viewed  in  the  moral  light — so  to  speak — of  that  laugh.  Great 
loves  mature  and  deepen  under  the  action  of  sorrow  and  the 
necessity  to  forgive;  yet  it  is  a  shrewdly  bitter  moment,  when 
the  heart  of  either  man  or  woman  first  admits  that  the  god  of 


«4  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

its  idolatry  has,  after  all,  feet  of  but  very  common  clay.  Het 
head  erect,  her  eyes  moist,  Mary  turned  to  Julius  March  and 
asked  him  of  the  welfare  of  a  certain  labourer's  family  that  had 
lately  niigrated  from  Nevvlands  to  Sandyfield.  But  Ormiston's 
voice  broke  in  upon  the  inquiries  w^ith  a  determination  to 
claim  her  attention. 

"Miss  Cathcart,"  he  said,  ''  forgive  my  interrupting  you.  I 
<:an  tell  you  more  about  the  Spratleys  than  March  can. 
They're  ail  right.  lies  has  taken  the  man  on  as  carter  at  the 
home-farm,  and  given  the  eldest  boy  a  job  with  the  woodmen. 
I  told  him  to  do  what  he  could  for  them  as  you  said  you  were 
interested  :n  them.  And  now,  please,  I  want  you  to  drink  my 
small  nephew's  health." 

The  girl  pushed  forward  her  wine-glass  without  speaking  j 
and  as  he  filled  it  Ormiston  added  in  a  lower  tone: — 

"  He,  at  all  events,  unlike  some  of  his  relations,  is  guiltless 
of  foolish  words  or  foolish  actions.  I  don't  pretend  to  share 
Ella's  superstitions,  but  some  people's  good  wishes  are  very 
well  worth  having." 

Unwillingly  Mary  Cathcart  raised  her  eyes.  Her  head  was 
still  carried  a  little  high  and  her  cheeks  were  still  glowing. 
Her  god  might  not  be  of  pure  gold  throughout — such  gods 
rarely  are  unfortunately — yet  she  was  aware  she  still  found 
him  a  very  worshipful  kind  of  deity. 

*' Very  well  worth  having,"  he  repeated.  "And  so  I  should 
like  that  poor  little  chap  to  have  your  good  wishes,  Miss  Cath- 
cart. Wish  him  all  manner  of  nice  things,  for  his  mother's 
sake  as  well  as  his  own.  There's  been  a  pretty  bad  run  of 
luck  here  lately,  and  it's  time  it  changed.  Wish  him  better 
fortune  than  his  forefathers.  I'm  not  superstitious,  as  1  say, 
but  Richard  Calmady's  death  scared  one  a  little.  Five  minutes 
beforehand  it  seemed  so  utterly  improbable.  And  then  one 
began  to  wonder  if  there  could  be  any  truth  in  the  old  legend. 
And  that  was  ugly,  you  know." 

Dr.  Knott  glanced  at  the  speaker  sharply. — "  Oh  !  that  oc- 
curred to  you,  did  it  ?  "  he  said. 

"  Bless  me !  why,  it  occurred  to  everybody,"  Ormiston 
answered  impatiently.  "  Some  idiot  raked  the  story  up,  and  it 
was  canvassed  from  one  end  of  the  county  to  the  other  last 
autumn  till  it  made  me  fairly  sick." 


THE  CLOWN  65 

"  Poor  boy  ! "  cried  Mrs.  Ormiston,  "  and  what  is  this 
wonderful  story  that  so  nauseates  him,  Dr.  Knott  ?  " 

"  Vm  afraid  I  can't  tell  you/'  the  doctor  answered  slowly. 
A  nervous  movement  on  the  part  of  Julius  March  had  at- 
tracted his  attention.  "  I  have  never  managed  to  get  hold 
of  the  story  as  a  whole,  but  I  should  like  to  do  so  uncom- 
monly." 

Julius  pushed  back  his  chair,  and  groped  hurriedly  for  the 
dinner  napkin  which  had  slipped  to  the  ground  from  his  knees. 
The  subject  of  the  conversation  agitated  him.  The  untidy^ 
little  chap-books,  tied  together  with  the  tag  of  rusty  ribbon, 
had  lain  undisturbed  in  the  drawer  of  his  library  table  ever 
since  the — to  him — very  memorable  evening,  when,  kneeling 
defore  the  image  of  the  stricken  Mother  and  the  dead  Christ, 
he  had  found  the  man's  heart  under  the  priest's  cassock  and 
awakened  to  newness  of  life.  Much  had  happened  since 
then ;  and  Julius  had  ranged  himself,  accepting,  open-eyed, 
the  sorrows  and  alleviations  of  the  fate  he  had  created  for 
himself.  But  to-night  he  was  tired.  The  mental  and  emotional 
strain  of  the  last  few  days  had  been  considerable.  Moreover, 
John  Knott's  presence  always  affected  him.  The  two  men 
stood,  indeed,  at  opposing  poles  of  thought — the  one  spiritual 
and  ideal,  the  other  material  and  realistic.  And,  though  he 
struggled  against  the  influence,  the  doctor's  rather  brutal  com- 
mon sense  and  large  knowledge  of  physical  causes,  gained  a 
painful  ascendency  over  his  mind  at  close  quarters.  Knott,  it 
must  be  owned,  was  slightly  merciless  to  his  clerical  acquaint- 
ances. He  loved  to  bait  them,  to  impale  them  on  the  horns 
of  some  moral  or  theological  dilemma.  And  it  was  partly 
with  this  purpose  of  harrying  and  worrying,  that  he  continued 
now : — 

"Yes,  Mrs.  Ormiston,  I  should  like  to  hear  the  story  just  as 
much  as  you  would.  And — it  strikes  me,  if  he  pleased,  Mr. 
March  could  tell  it  to  us.     Suppose  you  ask  him  to  !  " 

Promptly  the  young  lady  fell  upon  Julius,  regardless  of 
Ormiston's  hardly  concealed  displeasure. 

"  Oh  !  you  bad  man,  what  are  you  doing,"  she  cried,  "try- 
ing to  conceal  thrilling  family  legends  from  the  nearest  rela- 
tives ?  Tell  us  all  about  it,  if  you  know,  as  Dr.  Knott  de- 
clares you  do.  I  dote  on  terrifying  stories — don't  you,  Mary  ? 
• — that  send  the  cold  shivers  all  down  my  back.     And  if  they 


6l  sir  RICHARD  CALMADY 

deal  with  the  history  of  my  nearest  and  dearest,  why,  there's 
an  added  charm  to  them.  Now,  Mr.  March,  we're  all  atten- 
tion. Stand  and  deliver,  and  make  it  all  just  as  bad  as  you 
can. 

"I  am  afraid  I  am  not  an  effective  improvisator e^^^  he  re- 
plied ;  "  and  the  subject,  if  you  will  pardon  my  saying  so, 
seems  to  me  too  intimate  for  mirth.  A  curse  is  supposed  to 
rest  on  this  place.  The  owners  of  Brockhurst  die  young  and 
by  violent  means." 

"  We  know  that  already,  and  look  to  you  to  tell  us  some- 
thing more,  Mr.  March,"  Dr.  Knott  said  dryly. 

Julius  was  slightly  nettled  at  the  elder  man's  tone  and  man- 
ner. He  answered  with  an  accentuation  of  his  usual  refine- 
ment of  enunciation  and  suavity  of  manner. 

^'  There  is  a  term  to  the  curse,  a  saviour  who,  according  to 
the  old  prediction,  has  the  power,  should  he  also  have  the  will, 
to  remove  it  altogether." 

"  Oh,  really,  is  that  so !  And  when  does  this  saviour  put 
in  an  appearance  ? "  the  doctor  asked  again. 

"That  is  not  revealed," 

Julius  would  very  gladly  have  said  nothing  further.  But 
Dr.  Knott's  expression  was  curiously  intent  and  compelling,  as 
he  sat  fingering  the  stem  of  his  wine-glass.  All  the  ideality 
of  Julius's  nature  rose  in  protest  against  the  half-sneering  ra- 
tionalism he  seemed  to  read  in  that  expression.  Mrs.  Ormis- 
ton,  who  had  an  hereditary  racial  appreciation  of  anything 
approaching  a  fight,  turned  her  round  eyes  first  on  one  speaker 
and  then  on  the  other  provokingly,  inciting  them  to  more  de- 
clared hostilities,  while  she  bit  her  lips  in  her  effort  to  avoid 
spoiling  sport  by  untimely  laughter  or  speech. 

"  But  unhappily,"  Julius  proceeded,  yielding  under  protest  to 
these  opposing  forces,  "the  saviour  comes  in  so  questionable 
a  shape,  that  I  fear,  whenever  the  appointed  time  may  be, 
his  appearance  v/ill  only  be  welcomed  by  the  discerning  feWp" 

"That's  a  pity,"  Dr.  Knott  said.  He  paused  a  minute, 
passed  his  hand  across  his  mouth.  "  Still,  if  we  are  to  believe 
the  Bible,  and  other  so-called,  sacred  histories,  it's  been  the 
way  of  saviours  from  the  beginning  to  try  the  faith  of  ordinary 
mortals  by  presenting  themselves  under  rather  queer  disguises.'* 
He  paused  again,  drawing  in  his  wide  lips,  moistening  them 
with  his  tongue.     "  But  since  you  evidently  know  all  about 


THE  CLOWN  67 

it,  Mr.  March,  may  I  make  bold  to  inquire  in  what  special 
form  of  fancy  dress  the  saviour  in  question  is  reported  as  likely 
to  present  himself?  " 

"  He  comes  as  a  child  of  the  house,"  Julius  answered,  with 
dignity.  "A  child  who  in  person — if  I  understand  the  word- 
ing of  the  prophecy  aright — is  half  angel,  half  monster." 

John  Knott  opened  his  mouth  as  though  to  give  passage  to 
some  very  forcible  exclamation.  Thought  better  of  it  and 
brought  his  jaws  together  with  a  kind  of  grind.  His  heavy 
figure  seemed  to  hunch  itself  up  as  in  the  recoil  from  a 
blow. 

"  Curious,"  he  said  quietly.  Yet  Julius,  looking  at  him, 
could  have  fancied  that  his  weather-beaten  face  went  a  trifle 
pale. 

But  Mrs.  Ormiston,  in  the  interests  of  a  possible  fight, 
had  contained  herself  just  as  long  as  was  possible.  Now 
she  clapped  her  hands,  and  broke  into  a  little  scream  of 
laughter. 

"  That's  just  the  most  magnificently  romantic  thing  I  ever 
heard,"  she  cried.  "Come  now,  this  requires  further  investi- 
gation. What's  our  baby  like.  Dr.  Knott  ?  I've  seen  noth- 
ing but  an  indistinguishable  mass  of  shawls  and  flannels. 
Have  we,  by  chance,  got  an  angelic  monstrosity  up-stairs  with- 
out being  aware  of  it  ?  " 

"  Charlotte  ! "  Roger  Ormiston  called  out  sternly.  The 
young  man  looked  positively  dangerous.  "This  conversation 
has  gone  quite  far  enough.  I  agree  with  March,  it  may  all 
be  stuffs  and  nonsense,  not  worth  a  second  thought,  still  it  isn't 
a  thing  to  joke  about." 

"  Very  well,  dear  boy,  be  soothed  then,"  she  returned, 
making  a  little  grimace  and  putting  her  head  on  one  side 
coquettishly.  "  I'll  be  as  solemn  as  nine  owls.  But  you 
must  excuse  a  momentary  excitement.  It's  all  news  to  me, 
you  know.  I'd  no  notion  Katherine  had  married  into  such  a 
remarkable  family.  I'm  bound  to  learn  a  little  more.  Do 
you  believe  it's  possible  at  all.  Dr.  Knott,  now  tell  me  ?  " 

"  The  fulfilment  of  prophecy  is  rather  a  wide  and  burning 
question  to  embark  on,"  he  said.  "  With  Captain  Ormiston's 
leave,  I  think  we'd  better  go  back  to  the  point  we  started 
from  and  drink  the  little  gentleman's  health.  I  have  my 
patient  to  see  again,  and  it  is  getting  rather  late." 


68  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

The  lady  addressed,  laughed,  held  up  her  glass,  and  stared 
round  the  table  with  a  fine  air  of  bravado,  looking  remarkably 
pretty. 

"  Fire  away,  Roger,  dear  fellow,"  she  said.  "  We're 
loaded,  and  ready." 

Thus  admonished,  Ormiston  raised  his  glass  too.  But  his 
temper  was  not  of  the  sweetest,  just  then ;   he  spoke  forcedly. 

"Here's  to  the  boy,"  he  said;  '^good  luck,  and  good 
health,  and,"  he  added  hastily,  "  please  God  he'll  be  a  comfort 
to  his  mother." 

"  Amen,"  Julius  said  softly. 

Dr.  Knott  contemplated  the  contents  of  his  glass,  for  a 
moment,  whether  critically  or  absently  it  would  have  been 
difficult  to  decide.  But  all  the  harshness  had  gone  out  of  his 
face,  and  his  loose  lips  worked  into  a  smile  pathetic  in 
quality. 

"To  the  baby. — And  I  venture  to  add  a  clause  to  your  in- 
vocation of  that  heartless  jade.  Dame  Fortune.  May  he 
never  lack  good  courage  and  good  friends.  He  will  need 
both." 

Julius  March  set  down  his  wine  untasted.  He  had  re- 
ceived a  very  disagreeable  impression. 

"  Come,  come,  it  appears  to  me,  w^e  are  paying  these 
honours  in  a  most  lugubrious  spirit,"  Mrs.  Ormiston  broke  in. 
"  I  wish  the  baby  a  long  life  and  a  merry  one,  in  defiance  of 
all  prophecies  and  traditions  belonging  to  his  paternal  ances- 
try. Go  on,  Mr.  March,  you're  shamefully  neglecting  your 
duty.     No  heel  taps." 

She  threw  back  her  head  showing  the  whole  of  her  white 
throat,  drained  her  glass  and  then  flung  it  over  her  shoulder. 
It  fell  on  the  black,  polished  boards,  beyond  the  edge  of  the 
carpet,  shivered  into  a  hundred  pieces,  that  lay  glittering,  like 
scattered  diamonds  in  the  lamplight.  For  the  day  had  died 
altogether.  Fleets  of  dark,  straggling  cloud  chased  each  other 
across  spaces  of  pallid  sky,  against  the  earthward  edge  of 
which  dusky  tree-tops  strained  and  writhed  in  the  force  of  the 
tearing  gale. 

Ella  Ormiston  rose  laughing  from  her  place  at  table. 

*'  That's  the  correct  form,"  she  said,  "  it  ensures  the  fulfil- 
ment of  the  wish.  You  ought  all  to  have  cast  away  your 
glasses  regardless  of  expense.     Come,  Mary,  wc  will  remove 


THE  CLOWN  69 

ourselves.  Mind  and  bid  me  good-bye  before  you  go.  Dr. 
Knott,  and  report  on  Lady  Calmady.  It's  probably  the  last 
time  you'll  have  the  felicity  of  seeing  me.  I'm  ofF  at  cock- 
crow^ to-morrow  morning." 


CHAPTER  VIII 

ENTER    A    CHILD    OF    PROMISE 

A  FTER  closing  the  door  behind  the  tv^o  ladies,  Ormiston 
"^^  paused  by  the  near  window  and  gazed  out  into  the 
night.  The  dinner  had  been,  in  his  opinion,  far  from  a  suc- 
cess. He  feared  his  relation  to  Mary  Cathcart  had  retro- 
graded rather  than  progressed.  He  wished  his  sister-in-law 
would  be  more  correct  in  speech  and  behaviour.  Then  he 
held  the  conversation  had  been  in  bad  taste.  The  doctor 
should  have  abstained  from  pressing  Julius  with  questions. 
He  assured  himself,  again,  that  the  story  was  not  worth  a  mo- 
ment's serious  consideration  ;  yet  he  resented  its  discussion. 
Such  discussion  seemed  to  him  to  tread  hard  on  the  heels  of 
impertinence  to  his  sister,  to  her  husband's  memory,  and  to 
this  boy,  born  to  so  excellent  a  position  and  so  great  wealth. 
And  the  worst  of  it  was,  that  like  a  fool,  he  had  started  the 
subject  himself! 

"  The  wind's  rising,"  he  remarked  at  last.  "  You'll  have 
a  rough  drive  home,  Knott." 

"  It  won't  be  the  first  one.  And  my  beauty's  of  the  kind 
which  takes  a  lot  of  spoiling." 

The  answer  did  not  please  the  young  man.  He  sauntered 
across  the  room  and  dropped  into  his  chair,  with  a  slightly  in- 
solent demeanour. 

"All  the  same,  don't  let  me  detain  you,"  he  said,  "  if  you 
prefer  seeing  Lady  Calmady  at  once  and  getting  off." 

"You  don't  detain  me,"  Dr.  Knott  answered.  "I'm 
afraid  that  it's  just  the  other  way  about,  and  that  I  must  de- 
tain you.  Captain  Ormiston,  and  that  on  rather  unpleasant 
business." 

Julius  March  had  risen  to  his  feet.     "  You — you  have  no 


70  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

fresh  cause  for  anxiety  about  L.idy  Calmady  ?  "  he  said  hur- 
riedly. 

The  doctor  glanced  up  at  the  tall,  spare,  black  figure  and 
dark,  sensitive  face  with  a  half-sneering,  half-pitying  smile. 

^^  Oh  no,  no !  *'  he  replied;  ''Lady  Calmady 's  going  on 
, splendidly.  And  it  is  to  guard,  just  as  far  as  we  can,  against 
'cause  for  anxiety  later,  that  I  want  to  speak  to  Captain  Or- 
miston  now.  We've  got  to  be  prepared  for  certain  contin- 
gencies. Don't  you  go,  Mr.  March.  You  may  as  well  hear 
what  I've  to  say.  It  will  interest  you  particularly,  I  fancy, 
after  one  or  two  things  you  have  told  us  to-night !  " 

"Sit  down,  Julius,  please." — Ormiston  would  have  liked  to 
maintain  that  same  insolence  of  demeanour,  but  it  gave  before 
an  apprehension  of  serious  issues.  He  looked  hard  at  the 
doctor,  cudgeling  his  brains  as  to  what  the  latter't  enigmatic 
speech  might  mean — divined,  put  the  idea  avv^ay  as  inadmis- 
sible, returned  to  it,  then  said  angrily  : — "  There's  nothing 
wrong  with  the  child,  of  course  ?  " 

Dr.  Knott  turned  his  chair  sideways  to  the  table  and  shaded 
his  face  with  his  thick,  square  hand. 

''  Well,  that  depends  on  what  you  call  wrong,"  he  slowly 
replied. 

"  It's  not  ill  ?  "  Ormiston  said. 

"  The  baby's  as  well  as  you  or  I — better,  in  fact,  than  I 
am,  for  I  am  confoundedly  touched  up  with  gout.  Bear  that 
in  mind.  Captain  Ormiston — that  the  child  is  well,  I  mean, 
not  that  I  am  gouty.  I  want  you  to  definitely  remember 
that,  you  and  Mr.  March." 

"Well,  then,  what  on  earth  is  the  matter?"  Ormiston 
asked  sharply.  "You  don't  mean  to  imply  it  is  injured  in 
any  way,  deformed  ?  " 

Dr.  Knott  let  his  hand  drop  on  the  table.  He  nodded  his 
head.  Ormiston  perceived,  and  it  moved  him  strangely,  that 
the  doctor's  eyes  were  wet. 

"Not  deformed,"  he  answered.  "Technically  you  can 
hardly  call  it  that,  but  maimed." 

"  Badly  ?  " 

"  Well,  that's  a  matter  of  opinion.  You  or  I  should  think 
5t  bad  enough,  I  fancy,  if  we  found  ourselves  in  the  same 
boat."  He  settled  himself  back  in  his  chair. — "You  had  bet- 
ter understand  it   quite   clearly,"  he   continued,  "  at  least  as 


THE  CLOWN  71 

clearly  as  I  can  put  it  to  you.  There  comes  a  point  where  I 
cannot  explain  the  facts  but  only  state  them.  You  have  heard 
of  spontaneous  amputation  ?  " 

Across  Ormiston's  mind  came  the  remembrance  of  a  litter 
of  puppies  he  had  seen  in  the  sanctum  of  the  veterinary  sur- 
geon of  his  regiment.     A  lump  rose  in  his  throat. 

"  Yes,  go  on/'  he  said. 

"  It  is  a  thing  that  does  not  happen  once  in  most  men's 
experience.  I  have  only  seen  one  case  before  in  all  my  prac- 
tice and  that  was  nothing  very  serious.  This  is  an  extra- 
ordinary example.  I  need  not  remind  you  of  Sir  Richard 
Calmady's  accident  and  the  subsequent  operation  ?  " 

"  Of  course  not — go  on,"  Ormiston  repeated. 

^'  In  both  cases  the  leg  is  gone  from  here,"  the  doctor  con- 
tinued, laying  the  edge  of  his  palm  across  the  thigh  immedi- 
ately above  the  knee.  "  The  foot  is  there — that  is  the  amaz- 
ing part  of  it — and,  as  far  as  I  can  see,  is  well  formed  and  of 
the  normal  size ;  but  so  embedded  in  the  stump  that  I  cannot 
discover  whether  the  ankle-joint  and  bones  of  the  lower  leg 
exist  in  a  contracted  form  or  not." 

Ormiston  poured  himself  out  a  glass  of  port.  His  hand 
shook  so  that  the  lip  of  the  decanter  chattered  against  the  lip 
of  the  glass.  He  gulped  down  the  wine  and,  getting  up, 
walked  the  length  of  the  room  and  back  again. 

"  God  in  heaven,"  he  murmured,  "  how  horrible  !  Poor 
Kitty,  how  utterly  horrible  ! — Poor  Kitty." 

For  the  baby,  in  his  own  fine  completeness,  he  had  as  yet  no 
feeling  but  one  of  repulsion. 

"  Can  nothing  be  done,  Knott  ? "  he  asked  at  last. 

"  Obviously  nothing." 

"  And  it  will  live  ?  " 

"  Oh !  bless  you,  yes  !  It'll  live  fast  enough  if  I  know  a 
healthy  infant  when  I  see  one.  And  I  ought  to  know  'em  by 
now.  I've  brought  them  into  the  world  by  dozens  for  my 
sins." 

''  Will  it  be  able  to  walk  ?  " 

"  Umph — well — shuffle,"  the  doctor  answered,  smiling 
savagely  to  keep  back  the  tears. 

The  young  man  leaned  his  elbows  on  the  table,  and  rested 
his  head  on  his  hands.  All  this  shocked  him  inexpressibly — 
shocked  him  almost  to  the  point  of  physical  illness.     Strong 


72  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

as  he  was  he  could  have  fainted,  just  then,  had  he  yielded  by 
ever  so  little.  And  this  u^as  the  boy  whom  they  had  so  longed 
for  then  !  The  child  on  whom  they  had  set  such  fond  hopes, 
who  was  to  be  the  pride  of  his  young  mother,  and  restore  the 
so  rudely  shaken  balance  of  her  life  !  This  was  the  boy  who 
should  go  to  Eton,  and  into  some  crack  regiment,  who  should 
ride  straight,  who  was  heir  to  great  possessions  ! 

"The  saviour  has  come,  you  see,  Mr.  March,  in  as  thor- 
ough-paced a  disguise  as  ever  saviour  did  yet,"  John  Knott 
said  cynically. 

"  He  had  better  never  have  come  at  all !  "  Ormiston  put  in 
fiercely,  from  behind  his  hands. 

Yes — very  likely — I  believe  I  agree,"  the  doctor  answered. 

Only  it  remains  that  he  has  come,  is  feeding,  growing,  stretch- 
ing, and  bellowing  too,  like  a  young  bull-calf,  when  anything 
doesn't  suit  him.  He  is  here,  very  much  here,  I  tell  you. 
And  so  we  have  just  got  to  consider  how  to  make  the  best  of 
him,  both  for  his  own  sake  and  for  Lady  Calmady's.  And  you 
must  understand  he  is  a  splendid,  little  anim.al,  clean  skinned 
and  strong,  as  you  would  expect,  being  the  child  of  two  such 
fine  young  people.  He  is  beautiful, — I  am  old-fashioned 
enough,  perhaps  scientific  enough,  to  put  a  good  deal  of  faith 
in  that  notion, — beautiful  as  a  child  only  can  be  who  is  born 
of  the  passion  of  true  lovers." 

He  paused,  looking  somewhat  mockingly  at  Julius. 

'^  Yes,  love  is  an  incalculably  great,  natural  force,"  he  con- 
tinued. "  It  comes  uncommonly  near  working  miracles  at 
times,  unconscious  and  rather  deplorable  miracles.  In  this 
case  it  has  worked  strangely  against  itself — at  once  for 
irreparable  injury  and  for  perfection.  For  the  child  is  perfect, 
is  superb,  but  for  the  one  thing." 

^^  Does  my  sister  know  ?  "  Ormiston  asked  hoarsely. 

*'  Not  yet ',  and,  as  long  as  we  can  keep  the  truth  from  her, 
she  had  better  not  know.  We  must  get  her  a  little  stronger,  if 
we  can,  first.  That  woman,  Mrs.  Denny,  is  worth  her  weight 
in  gold,  and  her  weight's  not  inconsiderable.  She  has  her 
wits  about  her,  and  has  contrived  to  meet  all  difficulties  so 
far." 

Ormiston  sat  in  the  same  dejected  attitude. 

^^  But  my  sister  is  bound  to  know  before  long." 

**  Of  course.    When  she  is  a  bit  better^  she'll  want  to  have 


THE  CLOWN  73 

the  baby  to  pluy  with,  d.'-ess  and  undress  it  and  see  what  the 
queer  little  being  is  made  of.  It's  a  way  young  mothers  have, 
and  a  very  pretty  way  too.  If  we  keep  the  child  from  her  she 
will  grow  suspicious,  and  take  means  to  find  out  for  herself, 
and  that  won't  do.  It  must  not  be.  I  won't  be  responsible 
for  the  consequences.  So  as  soon  as  she  asks  a  definite 
question,  she  must  have  a  definite  answer." 

The  young  man  looked  up  quickly. 

"And  who  is  to  give  the  answer?  "  he  said. 

"Well,  it  rests  chiefly  with  you  to  decide  that.  Clearly  she 
ought  not  to  hear  this  thing  from  a  servant.  It  Is  too  serious. 
It  needs  to  be  well  told — the  whole  kept  at  a  high  level,  if  you 
understand  me.  Give  Lady  Calmady  a  great  part  and  she  will 
play  it  nobly.  Let  this  come  upon  her  from  a  mean,  wet- 
nurse,  hospital-ward  sort  of  level,  and  it  may  break  her.  What 
we  have  to  do  is  to  keep  up  her  pluck.  Remember  we  are 
only  at  the  beginning  of  this  business  yet.  In  all  probability 
there  are  many  years  ahead.  Therefore  this  announcement 
must  come  to  Lady  Calmady  from  an  educated  person,  from 
an  equal,  from  somebody  who  can  see  all  round  it.  Mrs. 
Ormiston  tells  me  she  leaves  here  to-morrow  morning  ? " 

"  Mrs.  Ormiston  is  out  of  the  question  anyhow,"  Roger 
exclaimed  rather  bitterly. 

Here  Julius  March,  who  had  so  far  been  silent,  spohe ;  and 
in  speaking  showed  what  manner  of  spirit  he  was  of.  The 
doctor  agitated  him,  treated  him,  moreover,  with  scant  courtesy. 
But  Julius  put  this  aside.  He  could  afford  to  forget  himself  in 
liis  desire  for  any  possible  mitigation  of  the  blow  which  must 
fall  on  Katherine  Calmady.  And,  listening  to  his  talk,  he  had, 
in  the  last  quarter  of  an  hour,  gained  conviction  not  only  of 
this  man's  ability,  but  of  his  humanity,  of  his  possession  of  the 
peculiar  gentleness  which  so  often,  mercifully,  goes  along  with 
unusual  strength.  As  the  coarse-looking  hand  couid  soothe, 
touching  delicately,  so  the  hard  intellect  and  rough  tongue 
could,  he  believed,  modulate  themselves  to  very  consoling  and 
inspiring  tenderness  of  thought  and  speech. 

"We  have  you.  Dr.  Knott,"  he  said.  "  No  one,  I  think, 
could  better  break  this  terrible  sorrow  to  Lady  Calmady,  than 
yourself." 

"Thank  you — you  are  generous,  Mr.  March,"  the  other 
answered  cordially ;  adding  to  himself, — "  Got  to  revise  my 


74  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

opinion  of  the  black  coat.  Didn't  quite  deserve  thai  after  the 
way  you've  badgered  him,  eh,  John  Knott  ?  " 

He  shrugged  his  big  shoulders  a  little  shamefacedly. 

"  Of  course,  I'd  do  my  best,"  he  continued.  "  But  you  see 
ten  to  one  I  shan't  be  here  at  the  moment.  As  it  is  I  have 
neglected  lingering  sicknesses  and  sudden  deaths,  hysterical 
girls,  croupy  children,  broken  legs,  and  all  the  other  pretty 
little  amusements  of  a  rather  large  practice,  waiting  for  me. 
Suppose  I  happen  to  be  twenty  miles  away  on  the  far  side  of 
Westchurch,  or  seeing  after  some  of  Lady  Fallowfeild's 
numerous  progeny  engaged  In  teething  or  measles  ?  Lady 
Calmady  might  be  kept  waiting,  and  we  cannot  afford  to  have 
her  kept  waiting  in  this  crisis." 

"I  wish  to  God  my  aunt,  Mrs.  St.  Quentin,  was  here!" 
Ormiston  exclaimed.    "  But  she  is  not,  and  won't  be,  alas." 

"  Well,  then,  who  remains  ?  " 

As  the  doctor  spoke  he  pressed  his  fingers  against  the  edge 
of  the  table,  leaned  forward,  and  looked  keenly  at  Ormiston. 
He  was  extremely  ugly  just  then,  ugly  as  the  weather-worn 
gargoyle  on  some  mediaeval  church  tower  j  but  his  eyes  were 
curiously  compelling. 

"  Good  heavens  !  you  don't  mean  that  I've  got  to  tell  her !  " 
Ormiston  cried. 

He  rose  hurriedly,  thrust  his  hands  into  his  pockets,  and 
walked  a  little  unsteadily  across  to  the  window,  crunching  the 
shining  pieces  of  Mrs.  Ormiston's  sacrificial  wine-glass  under 
foot.  Outside  the  night  was  very  wild.  In  the  colourless  sky 
stars  reeled  among  the  fleets  of  racing  cloud.  The  wind  hissed 
up  the  grass  slopes  and  shouted  among  the  great  trees  crowning 
the  ridge  of  the  hill.  The  prospect  was  not  calculated  to 
encourage.  Ormiston  turned  his  back  on  it.  But  hardly  more 
encouraging  was  the  sombre,  gray-blue-walled  room.  The 
vision  of  all  that  often  returned  to  him  afterwards  in  very  dif- 
ferent scenes — the  tall  lamps,  the  two  men,  so  strangely  dis- 
similar in  appearance  and  temperament,  sitting  on  either  side 
the  dinner-table  with  Its  fine  linen  and  silver,  wines  and  fruits, 
waiting  silently  for  him  to  speak. 

*'  I  can't  tell  her,"  he  said,  "  I  can't.  Damn  It  all,  I  tell  you, 
Knott,  I  daren't.  Think  what  it  will  be  to  her !  Think  of 
being  told  that  about  your  own  child  !  "  Ormiston  lost  control 
of  himself.     He  spoke  violently.     "  I'm  so  awfully  fond  of 


THE  CLOWN  75 

her  and  proud  of  her,*'  he  went  on.  "She's  behaved  so 
splendidly  ever  since  Richard's  death,  laid  hold  of  all  the  busi- 
ness, never  spared  herself,  been  so  able  and  so  just.  And  now 
the  baby  coming,  and  being  a  boy,  seemed  to  be  a  sort  of  let 
up,  a  reward  to  her  for  all  her  goodness.  To  tell  her  this 
horrible  thing  will  be  like  doing  her  some  hideous  wrong.  If 
her  heart  has  to  be  broken,  in  common  charity  don't  ask  me  to 
break  it." 

There  was  a  pause.  He  came  back  to  the  table  and  stood 
behind  Julius  March's  chair. 

'^  It's  asking  me  to  be  hangman  to  my  own  sister,"  he  said. 

"  Yes,  I  know  it  is  a  confoundedly  nasty  piece  of  work. 
And  it's  rough  on  you,  very  rough.  Only,  you  see,  this 
hanging  has  to  be  put  through — there's  the  nuisance.  And 
it  is  just  a  question  whether  your  hand  won't  be  the  lightest 
after  all." 

Again  silence  obtained,  but  for  the  rush  and  sob  of  the  gale 
against  the  great  house. 

"  What  do  you  say,  Julius  ?  "  Ormiston  demanded  at  last. 

*'  I  suppose  our  only  thought  is  for  Katherine — for  Lady 
Calmady  ?  "  he  said,  "  And  in  that  case  I  agree  with  Dr. 
Knott." 

Roger  took  another  turn  to  the  window,  stood  there  awhile 
struggling  with  his  natural  desire  to  escape  from  so  painful  an 
embassy. 

*-'  Very  well,  if  you  are  not  here,  Knott,  I  undertake  to  tell 
her,"  he  said  at  last.  "Please  God,  she  mayn't  turn  against 
me  altogether  for  bringing  her  such  news.  I'll  be  on  hand  for 
the  next  few  days,  and — you  must  explain  to  Denny  that  I  am 
to  be  sent  for  whenever  I  am  wanted.  That's  all, — I  suppose 
we  may  as  well  go  now,  mayn't  we  ?  " 

Julius  knelt  at  the  faldstool,  without  the  altar  rails  of  the 
chapel,  till  the  light  showed  faintly  through  the  grisaille  of  the 
stained-glass  windows  and  outlined  the  spires  and  carveii 
canopies  of  the  stalls.  At  first  his  prayers  were  definite, 
petitions  for  mercy  and  grace  to  be  outpoured  on  the  fair,  young 
mother  and  her,  seemingly,  so  cruelly  afflicted  child  ;  on  him- 
self, too,  that  he  might  be  permitted  to  stay  here,  and  serve 
her  through  the  difficult  future.  If  she  had  been  sacred  be- 
fore, Katherine  was  rendered  doubly  sacred  to  him  now.  He 
bowed  himself,  in  reverential  awe,  before  the  thought  of  her 


76  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

martyrdom.  How  would  her  proud  and  naturally  joyous 
spirit  bear  the  bitter  pains  of  it  ?  Would  it  make,  eventually^ 
for  evil  or  for  good  ?  And  then — the  ascetic  within  him  as- 
serting itself,  notwithstanding  the  widening  of  outlook  pro- 
duced by  the  awakening  of  his  heart — he  was  overtaken  by  a 
great  horror  of  that  v/hich  we  call  matter;  by  a  revolt  against 
the  body,  and  those  torments  and  shames,  mental,  moral,  and 
physical,  which  the  body  brings  along  with  it.  Surely  the 
dualists  were  right  ?  It  was  unregenerate,  a  thing,  if  made  by^ 
God,  yet  wholly  fallen  away  from  Him  and  given  over  to  evil, 
this  fleshly  envelope  wherein  the  human  soul  is  seated,  and 
which,  even  in  the  womb,  may  be  infected  by  disease  or 
rendered  hideous  by  mutilation  ?  Then,  as  the  languor  of  his 
long  vigil  overcame  him,  he  passed  into  an  ecstatic  contem- 
plation of  the  state  of  that  same  soul  after  death,  clothed  with 
a  garment  of  incorruptible  and  enduring  beauty,  dwelling  in 
clear,  luminous  spaces,  worshipping  among  the  ranks  of  the 
redeemed,  beholding  its  Lord  God  face  to  face. 

John  Knott,  meanwhile,  after  driving  home  beneath  the 
reeling  stars,  through  the  roar  of  the  forest  and  shriek  of  the 
wind  across  the  open  moors,  found  an  urgent  summons  await- 
ing him.  He  spent  the  remainder  of  that  night,  not  in  dreams 
of  paradise  and  of  spirits  redeemed  from  the  thraldom  of  the 
flesh,  but  in  increasing  the  population  of  this  astonishing 
planet,  by  assisting  to  deliver  a  scrofulous,  half-witted  shriek- 
ing servant-girl  of  twins — illegitimate — in  the  fusty  atmos- 
phere of  a  cottage  garret,  right  up  under  the  rat-eaten  thatch* 


CHAPTER  IX 

IN    WHICH    KATHERINE    CALMADY    LOOKS    ON    HER   SON 

A/Tore  than  a  week  elapsed  before  Ormiston  was  called 
upon  to  redeem  his  promise.  For  Lady  Calmady's 
convalescence  was  slow.  An  apathy  held  her,  which  was 
tranquillising  rather  than  tedious.  She  was  glad  to  lie  still  and 
rest.  She  found  it  very  soothing  to  be  shut  away  from  the 
many  obligations  of  active  life  for  a  while ;  to  watch  the  sun- 
light, on  fair  days,  shift  from  east  by  south  to  west,  across  the 


THE  CLOWN 


77 


warm  fragrant  room ;  to  see  the  changing  clouds  in  the  deli- 
cate spring  sky,  and  the  slow-dying  crimson  and  violet  of  the 
sunset ;  to  hear  the  sudden  hurry  of  f;dling  rain,  the  subdued 
voices  of  the  women  in  the  adjoining  nursery,  and,  some- 
times, the  lusty  protestations  of  her  baby  when — as  John 
Knott  had  put  it — "things  didn't  suit  him."  She  felt  a  little 
jealous  of  the  comely,  young  wet-nurse,  a  little  desirous  to  be 
more  intimately  acquainted  with  this  small,  new  Richard  Cal- 
mady,  on  whom  all  her  hopes  for  the  future  were  set.  But 
immediately  she  was  very  submissive  to  the  restrictions  laid 
by  Denny  and  the  doctor  upon  her  intercourse  with  the  child. 
She  only  stood  on  the  threshold  of  motherhood  as  yet. 
While  the  inevitable  exhaustion,  following  on  the  excitement 
of  her  spring  and  summer  of  joy,  her  autumn  of  bitter 
sorrow,  and  her  winter  of  hard  work,  asserted  itself  now  that 
she  had  time  and  opportunity  for  rest. 

The  hangings  and  coverlet  of  the  great,  ebony,  half-tester 
bed  were  lined  with  rose  silk,  and  worked,  with  many  coloured 
worsteds  on  a  white  ground,  in  the  elaborate  Persian  pattern 
so  popular  among  industrious  ladies  of  leisure  in  the  reign  of 
good  Queen  Anne.  It  may  be  questioned  whether  the  pa^-a- 
ble,  wrought  out  with  such  patience  of  innumerable  stitches, 
was  closely  comprehensible  or  sympathetic  to  the  said  ladies ; 
since  a  particularly  wide  interval,  both  of  philosophy  and 
practice,  would  seem  to  divide  the  temper  of  the  early  eight- 
eenth century  from  that  of  the  mystic  East.  Still  the  parable 
was  there,  plain  to  whoso  could  read  it ;  and  not  perhaps,  rather 
pathetically,  without  its  modern  application. 

The  Powers  of  Evil,  in  the  form  of  a  Leopard,  pursue  the 
soul  of  man,  symbolised  by  a  Hart,  through  the  Forest  of 
This  Life.  In  the  midst  of  that  same  forest  stands  an  airy, 
domed  pavilion,  in  which — if  so  be  it  have  strength  and  fleet- 
ness  to  reach  it — the  panting,  hunted  creature  may,  for  a  time, 
find  security  and  repose.  Above  this  resting-place  the  trees 
of  the  forest  interlace  their  spreading  branches,  loaded  with 
amazing  leaves  and  fruit  *,  while  companies  of  rainbow-hued 
birds,  standing  very  upright  upon  nothing  in  particular,  enter- 
tain themselves  by  holding  singularly  indigestible  looking 
cherries  and  mulberries  in  their  yellow  beaks. 

And  so,  Katherine,  resting  in  dreamy  quiet  within  the 
shade  of  the  embroidered  curtains,  was  even  as  the  Hart  pas* 


78  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

turing  in  temporary  security  before  the  quaint  pavilion.  The 
mark  of  her  bereavement  was  upon  her  sensibly  still — would 
be  so  until  the  end.  Often  in  the  night,  when  Denny  had  at 
last  left  her,  she  would  wake  suddenly  and  stretch  her  arms 
out  across  the  vacant  space  of  the  wide  bed,  calling  softly  to 
the  beloved  one  who  could  give  no  answer;  and  then  recol- 
lecting, would  sob  herself  again  to  sleep.  Often  too,  as 
Ormiston's  step  sounded  through  the  Chapel-Room  when  he 
came  to  pay  her  those  short,  frequent  visits,  bringing  the  clean 
freshness  of  the  outer  air  along  with  him,  Katherine  would 
look  up  in  a  wondering  gladness,  cheating  herself  for  an 
instant  with  unreasoning  delight — look  up,  only  to  know  her 
sorrow,  and  feel  the  knife  turn  in  the  wound.  Nevertheless 
these  days  made,  in  the  main,  for  peace  and  healing.  On 
more  than  one  occasion  she  petitioned  that  Julius  March 
should  come  and  read  to  her,  choosing,  as  the  book  he  should 
read  from,  Spencer's  Faerie  ^eene.  He  obeyed,  in  manner 
calm,  in  spirit  deeply  moved.  Katherine  spoke  little.  But 
her  charm  was  great,  as  she  lay,  her  eyes  changeful  in  colour 
as  a  moorland  stream,  listening  to  those  intricate  stanzas,  in 
which  the  large  hope,  the  pride  of  honourable  deeds,  the 
virtue,  the  patriotism,  the  masculine  fearlessness,  the  ideality, 
the  fantastic  imagination,  of  the  English  Renaissance  so  nobly 
finds  voice.  They  comforted  her  mind,  set  by  instinct  and 
training  to  welcome  all  splendid  adventures  of  romance,  of 
nature,  and  of  faith.  They  carried  her  back,  in  dear  remem- 
brance, to  the  perplexing  and  enchanting  discoveries  which 
Richard  Calmady's  visit  to  Ormiston  Castle — the  many- 
towered,  gray  house  looking  eastward  across  the  unquiet  sea — 
had  brought  to  her.  And  specially  did  they  recall  to  her  that 
first  evening — even  yet  she  grew  hot  as  she  thought  of  it — 
when  the  supposed  gentleman-jockey,  whom  she  had  purposed 
treating  with  gay  and  reducing  indifference,  proved  not  only 
fine  scholar  and  fine  gentleman,  but  absolute  and  indisputable 
master  of  her  heart. 

Dr.  Knott  came  to  see  her,  too,  almost  daily — rough,  ten- 
der-hearted, humorous,  dependable,  never  losing  sight,  in  his 
intercourse  with  her,  of  the  matter  in  hand,  of  the  thing 
which  immediately  is. 

Thus  did  these  three  men,  each  according  to  his  nature  and 
capacity,  strive  to  guard  the  poor  Hart,  pasturing  before  the 


THE  CLOWN  79 

quaint  pavilion,  set — for  its  passing  refreshment — in  the  midst 
of  the  Forest  of  This  Life,  and  to  keep,  just  so  long  as  was 
possible,  the  pursuing  Leopard  at  bay.  Nevertheless  the  Leo- 
pard gained,  despite  of  their  faithful  guardianship — which  was 
inevitable,  the  case  standing  as  it  did. 

For  one  bright  afternoon,  about  three  o'clock,  Mrs.  Denny 
arrived  in  the  gun-room,  where  Ormiston  sat  smoking,  while 
talking  over  with  Julius  the  turf-cutting  claims  of  certain 
squatters  on  Spendle  Flats — arrived,  not  to  summon  the  latter 
to  further  readings  of  the  great  Elizabethan  poet,  but  to  say  to 
the  former  : — 

"  Will  you  please  come  at  once,  sir  ?  Her  ladyship  is  sit- 
ting up.  She  is  a  little  difficult  about  the  baby — only,  you 
know,  sir,  if  I  can  say  it  with  all  respect,  in  her  pretty,  teas- 
ing way.     But  I  am  afraid  she  must  be  told." 

And  Roger  rose  and  went — sick  at  heart.  He  would 
rather  have  faced  an  enemy's  battery,  vomiting  out  shot  and 
«hell,  than  gone  up  the  broad,  stately  staircase,  and  by  the 
silent,  sunny  passageways,  to  that  fragrant,  white-paneled 
room. 

On  the  stands  and  tables  were  bowls  full  of  clear-coloured 
spring  flowers — early  primrose,  jonquil,  and  narcissus.  A 
wood-fire  burned  upon  the  blue-and-white  tiled  hearth.  And 
on  the  sofa,  drawn  up  at  right  angles  to  it,  Katherine  sat, 
wrapped  in  a  gray,  silk  dressing-gown  bordered  with  soft^ 
white  fur.  She  flushed  slightly  as  her  brother  came  in,  and 
spoke  to  him  with  an  air  of  playful  apology. 

"  I  really  don't  know  why  you  should  have  been  dragged  up 
here,  just  now,  dear  old  man,"  she  said.  "  It  is  some  fancy 
of  Denny's.  I'm  afraid  in  the  excess  of  her  devotion  she 
makes  me  rather  a  nuisance  to  you.  And  now,  not  contented 
with  fussing  about  me,  she  has  taken  to  being  absurdly  mys- 
terious about  the  baby " 

She  stopped  abruptly.  Something  in  the  young  man's  ex- 
pression and  bearing  impressed  her,  causing  her  to  stretch  out 
her  hands  to  him  in  swift  fear  and  entreaty. 

"  Oh,  Roger  !  "   she  cried,  "  Roger — what  is  it  ?  " 

And  he  told  her,  repeating,  with  but  a  few  omissions,  the 
statement  made  to  him  by  the  doctor  ten  days  ago.  He  dared 
not  look  at  her  while  he  spoke,  lest  seeing  her  should  unnerve 
iiim  altogether. 


8o  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

Katherine  was  very  still.  She  made  no  outcry.  Yet  her 
very  stillness  seemed  to  him  the  more  ominous,  and  the  horror 
of  the  recital  grew  upon  him.  His  voice  sounded  to  him  un- 
naturally loud  and  harsh  in  the  surrounding  quiet.  Once  her 
silken  draperies  gave  a  shuddering  rustle — that  was  all. 

At  last  it  was  over.  At  last  he  dared  to  look  at  her.  The 
colour  and  youthful  roundness  had  gone  out  of  her  face.  It 
was  gray  as  her  dress,  fixed  and  rigid  as  a  marble  mask. 
Ormiston  was  overcome  with  a  consuming  pity  for  her  and 
with  a  violence  of  self-hatred.  Hangman,  and  to  his  own 
sister — in  truth,  it  seemed  to  him  to  have  come  to  that !  He 
knelt  down  in  front  of  her,  laying  hold  of  both  her  knees. 

"  Kitty,  can  you  ever  forgive  me  for  telling  you  this  ?  "  he 
asked  hoarsely. 

Even  in  this  extremity  Katherine's  inherent  sweetness  as- 
serted itself.  She  would  have  smiled,  but  her  frozen  lips  re- 
fused.    Her  eyelids  quivered  a  little  and  closed. 

"I  have  nothing  to  forgive  you,  dear,"  she  said.  "Indeed, 
it  is  good  of  you  to  tell  me,  since — since  so  it  is." 

She  put  her  hands  upon  his  shoulders,  gripping  them  fast, 
and  bowed  her  head.  The  little  flames  crackled,  dancing 
among  the  pine  logs  and  the  silk  of  her  dress  rustled  as  her 
bosom  rose  and  fell. 

"  It  won't  make  you  ill    again  ?  "  Roger  asked  anxiously* 

Katherine  shook  her  head. 

"  Oh,  no  ! "  she  said,  "  I  have  no  more  time  for  illnessr^ 
This  is  a  thing  to  cure,  as  a  cautery  cures — to  burn  away  all 
idleness  and  self-indulgent,  sick  room  fancies.  See,  I  am. 
strong,  I  am  well." 

She  stood  up,  her  hands  slipping  down  from  Ormiston'^s 
shoulders  and  steadying  themselves  on  his  hands  as  he  too 
rose.  Her  face  was  still  ashen,  but  purpose  and  decision  had 
come  into  her  eyes. 

"  Do  this  for  me,"  she  said,  almost  imperiously.  "  Go  to 
Denny,  tell  her  to  bring  me  the  baby.  She  is  to  leave  him 
with  me.  And  tell  her,  as  she  loves  both  him  and  me, — as: 
she  values  her  place  here  at  Brockhurst, — she  is  not  to  speak." 

As  he  looked  at  her  Ormiston  turned  cold.  She  was  terri- 
ble just  then. 

*^  Katherine,"  he  said  quickly,  "  what  on  earth  are  you  go- 
ing to  do  ? " 


THE  CLOWN  8x 

"  No  harm  to  my  baby  in  any  case — you  need  not  be 
alarmed.  I  am  quite  to  be  trusted.  Only  I  cannot  be  rea- 
soned with  or  opposed,  still  less  condoled  with  or  comforted, 
yet.  I  want  my  baby,  and  I  must  have  him,  here,  alone,  the 
doors  shut — locked  if  I  please."  Her  hps  gave,  the  corners 
of  her  mouth  dropped.  And  watching  her  Ormiston  swore  a 
little  under  his  breath.  ''We  have  something  to  say  to  each 
other,  the  baby  and  I,"  she  went  on,  "  which  no  one  else  may 
hear.  So  do  what  I  ask  you,  Roger.  And  come  back — I 
may  want  you — in  about  an  hour,  if  I  do  not  send  for  you 
before." 

Alone  with  her  child,  Lady  Calmady  moved  slowly  across 
and  bolted  both  the  nursery  and  the  chapel-room  doors. 
Then  she  drew  a  low  stool  up  in  front  of  the  fire  and  sat 
down,  laying  the  infant  upon  her  lap.  It  was  a  delicious, 
dimpled  creature,  with  a  quantity  of  silky  golden-brown  hair, 
that  curled  in  a  tiny  crest  along  the  top  of  its  head.  It  was 
but  half  awake  yet,  the  rounded  cheeks  pink  with  the  comfort 
of  food  and  slumber.  And  as  the  beautiful,  young  mother, 
bending  that  set,  ashen  face  of  hers  above  it,  laid  the  child 
upon  her  knees,  it  stretched,  clenching  soft  baby  fists  and 
rubbing  them  into  its  blue  eyes. 

Katherine  unwrapped  the  shawls,  and  took  ofF  one  small 
garment  after  another — delicate  gossamer-like  things  of  fine 
flannel,  lawn  and  lace,  such  as  women's  fingers  linger  over  in 
the  making  with  tender  joy.  Once  her  resolution  failed  her. 
She  wrapped  the  half-dressed  child  in  its  white  shawls  again, 
rose  from  her  place  and  walked  over  to  the  sunny  window, 
ca^-rying  it  in  the  hollow  of  her  arm — it  staring  up,  meanwhile, 
.  with  the  strange  wonder  of  baby  eyes,  and  cooing,  as  though 
holding  communication  with  gracious  presences  haunting  the 
mculded  ceiling  above.  Katherine  gazed  at  it  for  a  few 
seconds.  But  the  little  creature's  serene  content,  its  absolute 
unconsciousness  of  its  own  evil  fortune,  pained  her  too 
gnratly.  She  went  back,  sat  down  on  the  stool  again,  and 
completed  the  task  she  had  set  herself. 

Then,  the  baby  lying  stark  naked  on  her  lap,  she  studied  the 
fai.',  little  face,  the  penciled  eyebrows  and  fringed  eyelids, — 
dark  like  her  own, — the  firm,  rounded  arms,  the  rosy-palmed 
hands,  their  dainty  fingers  and  finger-nails,  the  well-propor- 
tioned  and  well-nourished    body,   without    smallest   mark  or 


82  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

blemish  upon  it,  sound,  wholesome,  and  complete.  All  these 
she  studied  long  and  carefully,  while  the  dancing  glow  of  the 
firelight  played  over  the  child's  delicate  flesh,  and  it  extended 
its  little  arms  in  the  pleasant  warmth,  holding  them  up,  as  in 
act  of  adoration,  towards  those  gracious  unseen  presences, 
still,  apparently,  hovering  above  the  flood  of  instreaming  sun- 
shine against  the  ceiling  overhead.  Lastly  she  turned  her 
eyes,  with  almost  dreadful  courage,  upon  the  mutilated,  mal- 
formed limbs,  upon  the  feet — set  right  up  where  the  knee 
should  have  been,  thus  dwarfing  the  child  by  a  fourth  of  his 
height.  She  observed  them,  handled,  felt  them.  And  as  she 
did  so,  her  mother-love,  which,  until  now,  had  been  but  a  part 
and  consequence — since  the  child  was  his  gift,  the  crown  and 
outcome  of  their  passion,  his  and  hers — of  the  great  love  she 
bore  her  husband,  became  distinct  from  that,  an  emotion  by 
itself,  heretofore  unimagined,  pervasive  of  all  her  being.  It 
had  none  of  the  sweet  self-abandon,  the  dear  enchantments, 
the  harmonising  sense  of  safety  and  repose  which  that  earlier 
passion  had.  This  was  altogether  different  in  character,  and 
made  quite  other  demands  on  mind  and  heart.  For  it  was 
fierce,  watchful,  anxious,  violent  with  primitive  instinct;  the 
roots  of  it  planted  far  back  in  that  unthinkable  remoteness  of 
time,  when  the  fertile  womb  of  the  great  earth  mother  began 
to  bring  forth  the  first  blind,  simple  forms  of  those  countless 
generations  of  living  creatures  which,  slowly  differentiating 
themselves,  slowly  developing,  have  peopled  this  planet  from 
that  immeasurable  past  to  the  present  hour.  Love  between 
man  and  woman  must  be  forever  young,  even  as  Eros,  Cupid, 
Krishna,  are  forever  youthful  gods.  But  mother-love  is  of 
necessity  mature,  majestic,  ancient  from  the  stamp  of  primal 
experience  which  is  upon  it. 

And  so,  at  this  juncture,  realising  that  which  her  mother- 
hood meant,  her  immaturity,  her  girlhood  fell  away  from 
Katherine  Calmady.  Her  life  and  the  purpose  of  it  moved 
forward  on  another  plane. 

She  bent  down  and  solemnly  kissed  the  unlovely,  shortened 
limbs,  not  once  or  twice,  but  many  times,  yielding  herself  up 
with  an  almost  voluptuous  intensity  to  her  own  emotion.  She 
clasped  her  hands  about  her  knees,  so  that  the  child  might  be 
enclosed,  overshadowed,  embraced  on  all  sides  by  the  living 
defenses   of  its   mother's  love.     Alone    there,  with  no  wit- 


THE  CLOWN  83 

nesses,  she  brooded  over  it,  crooned  to  it,  caressed  it  with  an 
insatiable  hunger  of  tenderness. 

"  And  yet,  my  poor  pretty,  if  we  had  both  died,  you  and  I, 
ten  days  ago,''  she  murmured,  "  how  far  better.  For  what 
will  you  say  to  me  when  you  grow  older — to  me  who  have 
brought  you,  without  any  asking  or  will  of  yours,  into  a  world 
in  which  you  must  always  be  at  so  cruel  a  disadvantage  ? 
How  will  you  bear  it  all  when  you  come  to  face  it  for  your- 
self, and  I  can  no  longer  shield  you  and  hide  you  away  as  I 
can  do  now  ?  Will  you  have  fortitude  to  endure,  or  will  you 
become  sour,  vindictive,  misanthropic,  envious  ?  Will  you 
curse  the  hour  of  your  birth  ?  " 

Katherine  bowed  her  proud  head  still  lower. 

"  Ah  !  don't  do  that,  my  darling,"  she  prayed  in  piteous  en- 
treaty, "  don't  do  that.  For  I  will  share  all  your  trouble,  do 
share  it  even  now,  beforehand,  foreseeing  it,  while  you  still  lie 
smiling  unknowing  of  your  own  distress.  I  shall  live  through 
it  many  times,  by  day  and  night,  while  you  live  through  it  only 
once.  And  so  you  must  be  forbearing  towards  me,  my  dear 
one,  when  you  come " 

She  broke  ofF  abruptly,  her  hands  fell  at  her  sides,  and  she 
sat  rigidly  upright,  her  lips  parted,  staring  blankly  at  the  danc- 
ing flames. 

In  repeating  Dr.  Knott's  statement  Ormiston  had  pur- 
posely abstained  from  all  mention  of  Richard  Calmady's  acci- 
dent and  its  tragic  sequel.  He  could  not  bring  himself  to 
speak  to  Katherine  of  that.  Until  now,  dominated  by  the 
rush  of  her  emotion,  she  had  only  recognised  the  bare  terrible 
fact  of  the  baby's  crippled  condition,  without  attempting  to 
account  for  it.  But,  now,  suddenly  the  truth  presented  itself 
to  her.  She  understood  that  she  was  herself,  in  a  sense,  ac- 
countable— that  the  greatness  of  her  love  for  the  father  had 
maimed  the  child. 

As  she  realised  the  profound  irony  of  the  position,  a  black- 
ness of  misery  fell  upon  Katherine.  And  then,  since  she  was 
of  a  strong,  undaunted  spirit,  an  immense  anger  possessed 
her,  a  revolt  against  nature  which  could  work  such  wanton 
injury,  and  against  God,  who,  being  all-powerful,  could  sit 
by  and  permit  it  so  to  work.  All  the  foundations  of  faith 
and  reverence  were,  for  the  tmie  being,  shaken  to  the  very 
base. 


84  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

She  gathered  the  naked  baby  up  against  her  bosom,  rocking 
herself  to  and  fro  in  a  paroxysm  of  rebellious  grief. 

"  God  is  unjust !  "  she  cried  aloud.  "  He  takes  pleasure  io 
fooling  us.     God  is  unjust !  '* 


CHAPTER  X 

THE    BIRDS   OF    THE    AIR   TAKE    THEIR    BREAKFAST 

/^RMISTON'S  first  sensation  on  reentering  his  sister's 
^^^  room  was  one  of  very  sensible  relief.  For  Katherine 
leaned  back  against  the  pink  brocade  cushions  in  the  corner  of 
the  sofa,  with  the  baby  sleeping  peacefully  in  her  arms.  Her 
colour  was  more  normal  too,  her  features  less  mask-like  and 
set.  The  cloud  which  had  shadowed  the  young  man's  mind 
for  nearly  a  fortnight  lifted.  She  knew;  therefore,  he  argued, 
the  worst  must  be  over.  It  was  an  immense  gain  that  this 
thing  was  fairly  said.  Yet,  as  he  came  nearer  and  sat  down 
on  the  sofa  beside  her,  Ormiston,  who  was  a  keen  observer, 
both  of  horses  and  women,  became  aware  of  a  subtle  change 
in  Katherine.  He  was  struck — he  had  never  noticed  it  be- 
fore^ hv  her  likeness  to  her — and  his — father,  whose  stern, 
high  *j.red,  clean-shaven  face  and  rather  inaccessible  bearing 
anc^  t-ianner  impressed  his  son,  even  to  this  day,  as  somewhat 
al'-^r^THng.  People  were  careful  not  to  trifle  with  old  Mr. 
Orrrv^siton.  His  will  was  absolute  in  his  own  house,  with  his 
tenants,  and  in  the  great  iron-works — almost  a  town  in  itself 
—  vhich  fed  his  fine  fortune.  While  from  his  equals — even 
f^'om  his  fellow-members  of  that  not  over-reverent  or  easily 
impr  ssible  body,  the  House  of  Commons — he  required  and 
rece'./cd  a  degree  of  deference  such  as  men  yield  only  to  an 
uni' dually  powerful  character.  And  there  was  now  just  such 
underlying  energy  in  Katherine's  expression.  Her  eyes  were 
dark,  as  a  clear  midnight  sky  is  dark,  her  beautiful  lips  com- 
premised,  but  with  concentration  of  purpose,  not  with  weakness 
of  sorrow.  The  force  of  her  motherhood  had  awakened  in 
K -therine  a  latent,  titanic  element.  Like  "  Prometheus 
Boiind/'  chained  to  the  rock,  torn,  her  spirit  remained  un- 


THE  CLOWN  85 

quelled.  For  good  or  evil — as  the  event  should  prove — she 
defied  the  gods. 

And  something  of  all  this — though  he  would  have  worded 
it  very  differently  in  the  vernacular  of  passing  fashion — Ormis- 
ton  perceived.  She  was  unbroken  by  that  which  had  occurred, 
and  for  this  he  was  thankful.  But  she  was  another  woman  to 
her  who  had  greeted  him  in  pretty  apology  an  hour  ago.  Yet, 
even  recognising  this,  her  first  words  produced  in  him  a  shock 
c/  surprise. 

*'  Is  that  horse,  the  Clown,  still  at  the  stables  ?  "  she  asked. 

Ormiston  thrust  his  hands  into  his  pockets ;  and  sitting  on 
the  edge  of  the  sofa  with  his  knees  apart,  stared  down  at  the 
carpet.  The  mention  of  the  Clown  always  cut  him,  and 
raised  in  him  a  remorseful  anger.  Yes  she  was  like  his  father, 
going  straight  to  the  point,  he  thought.  And,  in  this  case,  the 
poi»t  was  acutely  painful  to  him  personally.  Ormiston's 
I  moral  courage  had  been  severely  taxed,  and  he  had  a  fair  share 
of  the  selfishness  common  to  man.  It  was  all  very  well,  but 
he  wished  to  goodness  she  had  chosen  some  other  subject  than 
this.     Yet  he  must  answer. 

*' Yes,"  he  said;  "Willy  Taylor  has  been  leading  the  gal- 
lops for  the  two-year-olds  on  him  for  the  last  month." — He 
paused.     "  What  about  the  Clown  ?  " 

"  Only  that  I  should  be  glad  if  you  would  tell  Chifney  he 
must  find  some  other  horse  to  lead  the  gallops." 

Ormiston  turned  his  head. 

"  I  see — you  wish  the  horse  sold,"  he  said,  over  his  shoulder. 

Katherine  looked  down  at  the  sleeping  baby,  its  round  head, 
crowned  by  that  delicious  crest  of  silky  hair,  cuddled  in  against 
her  breast.  Then  she  looked  in  her  brother's  eyes  full  and 
steadily. 

"  No,"  she  answered.  "  I  don't  want  it  sold,  I  want  it  shot, 
by  you,  here,  to-night." 

"  By  Jove  !  "  the  young  man  exclaimed,  rising  hastily  and 
standing  in  front  of  her. 

Katherine  gazed  up  at  him,  and  held  the  child  a  little  closer 
to  her  breast. 

"  I  have  been  alone  with  my  baby.  Don't  you  suppose  I 
see  how  it  has  come  about  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Oh,  damn  it  all !  "  Ormiston  cried.  '^I  prayed,  a*-  least, 
you  might  be  spared  thinking  of  that." 


86  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

He  flung  himself  down  on  the  sofa  again — while  the  baby 
clenching  its  tiny  fist,  stretched  and  murmured  in  its  sleep — 
and  bowed  himself  together,  resting  his  elbows  on  his  knees 
and  his  chin  in  his  hands. 

"  Pm  at  the  bottom  of  it.  It's  all  my  ^ault,"  he  said.  "  I 
am  haunted  by  the  thought  of  that  day  and  night,  for  if  ever 
one  man  loved  another  I  loved  Richard.  And  yet  if  I  hadn't 
been  so  cursedly  keen  about  the  horse  all  this  might  never  have 
happened.  Oh  !  if  you  only  knew  how  often  I've  wished 
myself  dead  since  that  ghastly  morning.  You  must  hate  me, 
Kitty.  You've  cause  enough.  Yet  how  the  deuce  could  I 
foresee  what  would  come  about  ?  " 

For  the  moment  Katherine's  expression  softened.  She  laid 
her  left  hand  very  gently  on  his  bowed  head. 

"  I  could  never  hate  you,  dear  old  man,"  she  said,  "  You 
are  innocent  of  Richard's  death.  But  this  last  thing  is  differ- 
ent." Her  voice  became  fuller  and  deeper  in  tone.  '^And 
whether  I  am  equally  innocent  of  his  child's  disfigurement, 
God  only  knows — if  there  is  a  God,  which  perhaps,  just  now, 
I  had  better  doubt,  lest  I  should  blaspheme  too  loudly,  hoping 
my  bitter  words  might  reach  His  hearing." 

Yet  further  disturbed  in  the  completeness  of  its  comfort,  as 
it  would  seem,  by  the  seriousness  of  her  voice,  the  baby's 
mouth  puckered.  It  began  to  fret.  Katherine  rose  and 
stood  rocking  it,  soothing  it — a  queenly  young  figure  in  her 
clinging  gray  and  white  draperies,  which  the  instreaming 
sunshine  touched,  as  she  moved,  to  a  delicate  warmth  of 
colour. 

"  Hush,  my  pretty  lamb,"  she  crooned — and  then  softly  yet 
fiercely  to  Ormiston,  "  You  understand,  I  wish  it.  The  Clown 
is  to  be  shot." 

"  Very  well,"  he  answered. 

"  Sleep — what  troubles  you,  my  precious,"  she  went  on. 
"I  want  it  done,  now,  at  once. — Hush,  baby,  hush. — The  sun 
shall  not  go  down  upon  my  wrath,  because  my  wrath  shall  be 
somewhat  appeased  before  the  sunset." 

Katherine  swayed  with  a  rhythmic  motion,  holding  the  baby 
a  little  away  from  her  in  her  outstretched  arms. 

"  Tell  Chifney  to  bring  the  horse  up  to  the  square  lawn, 
here,  right  in  front  of  the  house. — Hush,  my  kitty  sweet. — 
He  is  to  bring  the  horse  himself.     None  of  the  stable  boys  or 


THE  CLOWN  87 

helpers  are  to  come.  It  is  not  to  be  an  entertainment,  but  an 
execution.      I  wish  it  done  quietly." 

"  Very  well/'  Ormiston  repeated.  He  hesitated,  strong 
protest  rising  to  his  lips,  which  he  could  not  quite  bring  him- 
self to  utter.  Katherine,  the  courage  and  tragedy  of  her  an- 
ger, dominated  him  as  she  moved  to  and  fro  in  the  sunshine 
soothing  her  child. 

"  You  know  it's  a  valuable  horse,"  he  remarked,  at  last, 
tentatively. 

''  So  much  the  better.  You  do  not  suppose  I  should  care  to 
take  that  which  costs  me  nothing  ?  I  am  quite  willing  to  pay. 
— Sleep,  my  pet,  so — is  that  better  ? — I  do  not  propose  to  de- 
fraud— hush,  baby  darling,  hush — Richard's  son  of  any  part  of 
his  inheritance.  Tell  Chifney  to  name  a  price  for  the  Clown, 
an  outside  price.  He  shall  have  a  cheque  to-morrow,  which 
he  is  to  enter  with  the  rest  of  the  stable  accounts. — Now  go, 
please.  We  understand  each  other  clearly,  and  it  is  growing 
late. — Poor  honey  love,  what  vexes  you  ? — You  will  shoot  the 
Clown,  here,  before  sunset.  And,  Roger,  it  must  lie  where  it 
falls  to-night.  Let  some  of  the  men  come  early  to-morrow, 
with  a  float.     It  is  to  go  to  the  kennels." 

Ormiston  got  up,  shaking  his  shoulders  as  though  to  rid 
himself  of  some  encumbering  weight.  He  crossed  to  the  fire- 
place and  kicked  the  logs  together. 

"  I  don't  half  like  it,"  he  said.  "  I  tell  you  I  don't.  It 
seems  such  a  cold-blooded  butchery.  I  can't  tell  if  it's  wrong 
or  right.  It  seems  merciless.  And  it  is  so  unlike  you,  Kitty, 
to  be  merciless." 

He  turned  to  her  as  he  spoke,  and  Katherine — her  head 
erect,  her  eyes  full  of  the  sombre  fire  of  her  profound  aliena- 
tion and  revolt — drew  her  hand  slowly  down  over  the  fine 
lawn  and  lace  of  the  baby's  long  white  robe,  and  held  it  flat 
against  the  soles  of  the  child's  hidden  feet. 

"  Look  at  this,"  she  said.  "  Remember,  too,  that  the  de- 
light of  my  life  has  gone  from  me,  and  that  I  am  young  yet. 
The  years  will  be  many — and  Richard  is  dead.  Has  much 
mercy  been  shown  to  me,  do  you  think  ?  " 

And  the  young  man  seeing  her,  knowing  the  absolute  sin- 
cerity of  her  speech,  felt  a  lump  rise  in  his  throat.  After  all, 
when  you  have  acted  hangman  to  your  own  sister,  as  he  rea- 
soned, it  is  but  a  small  matter  to  act  slaughterman  to  a  horse. 


88  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 


CC 


Very  well,"  he  answered,  huskily  enough.  "It  shall  be 
as  you  wish,  Kitty.  Only  go  back  to  the  sofa,  and  stay  there, 
please.  If  I  think  you  are  watching,  I  can't  be  quite  sure  of 
myself.  Something  may  go  wrong,  and  we  don't  want  a  scene 
which  will  make  talk.  This  is  a  business  which  should  be 
got  through  as  quickly  and  decently  as  possible." 

The  sun  was  but  five  minutes  high,  and  no  longer  brightened 
the  southern  house  front,  though  it  spread  a  ruddy  splendour 
over  the  western  range  of  gables,  and  lingered  about  the  stacks 
of  slender  twisted  chimneys,  and  cast  long  slanting  shadows 
across  the  lawns  and  carriage  drives,  before  Lady  Calmady's 
waiting  drew  to  a  close.  From  the  near  trees  of  the  elm  ave- 
nue, and  from  the  wood  overhanging  the  pond  below  the  ter- 
raced kitchen  gardens,  came  the  singing  of  blackbirds  and 
thrushes — whether  raised  as  evening  hymn  in  praise  of  their 
Creator,  or  as  love-song  each  to  his  mate,  who  shall  say  ? 
Possibly  as  both,  since  in  simple  minds — and  that  assuredly  is 
matter  for  thankfulness — earthly  and  heavenly  affections  are 
bounded  by  no  harsh  dividing  line.  The  chorus  of  song  found 
its  way  in  at  the  wmdows  of  Katherine's  room — fresh  as  the 
spring  flowers  which  filled  it,  innocent  of  hatred  and  wrong  as 
the  face  of  the  now  placid  baby,  his  soft  cheeks  flushed  with 
slumber,  as  he  nestled  in  against  his  mother's  bosom. 

Indeed  a  long  time  had  passed.  Twice  Denny  had  looked 
in  and,  seeing  that  quiet  reigned,  had  noiselessly  withdrawn. 
For  Katherine,  still  physically  weak,  drained,  moreover,  by  the 
greatness  of  her  recent  emotion,  her  senses  lulled  to  rest  by 
the  warm  contact  and  even  breathing  of  the  child,  had  sunk 
away  into  a  dreamless  sleep. 

The  questioning  neigh  of  a  stallion,  a  scuffle  of  horse  hoofs, 
footsteps  approaching  round  the  corner  of  the  house,  passing 
across  the  broad  graveled  carriage  sweep  and  on  to  the  turf, 
aroused  her.  And  these  sounds  were  so  natural,  full  of  vigor- 
ous outdoor  life  and  the  wholesome  gladness  of  it,  that  for  a 
moment  she  came  near  repentance  of  her  purpose.  But  then 
feeling,  as  he  rested  on  her  arm,  her  baby's  shortened,  mal- 
formed limbs,  and  thinking  of  her  wcll-beloved  dying,  maimed 
and  spent,  in  the  fulness  of  his  manhood,  her  face  took  on 
that  ashen  pallor  again  and  all  relenting  left  her.  There  was 
a  satisfaction  of  wild  justice  in  the  act  about  to  be  consum- 
mated.    And  Katherine  raised  herself  from  the  pink  brocade 


THE  CLOWN  89 

cushions,  and  sat  erect,  her  lips  parted  in  stern  excitement,  her 
forehead  contracted  in  the  effort  to  hear,  her  eyes  fixed  on  the 
wide,  carven,  ebony  bed  and  its  embroidered  hangings.  The 
poor  Hart  had,  indeed,  ceased  to  pasture  in  reposeful  security 
before  the  quaint  pavilion,  set — for  its  passing  refreshment — 
in  the  midst  of  the  Forest  of  This  Life.  Now  it  fled,  desper- 
ate, by  crooked  tangled  ways,  over  rocks,  through  briars,  while 
Care,  the  Leopard,  followed  hard  behind. 

First  Roger  Ormiston's  voice  reached  her  in  brief  direction, 
and  the  trainer's  in  equally  brief  reply.  The  horse  neighed 
again — a  sound  strident  and  virile,  the  challenge  of  a  creature 
of  perfect  muscle,  hot  desire,  and  proud,  quick-coursing  blood. 
Afterwards,  an  instant's  pause,  and  Chifney's  voice  again, — 
^'  So-ho — my  beauty — take  it  easy — steady  there,  steady,  good 
lad,"  and  the  slap  of  his  open  hand  on  the  horse's  shoulder 
straightening  it  carefully  into  place.  While  behind  and  below 
all  this,  in  sweet  incongruous  undertone  of  uncontrollable  joy, 
arose  the  carolling  of  the  blackbirds  and  thrushes  praising,  ac- 
cording to  their  humble  powers,  God,  life,  and  love. 

Finally,  as  climax  of  the  drama,  the  sharp  report  of  a  pistol, 
ringing  out  in  shattering  disturbance  of  the  peace  of  the  fair 
spring  evening,  followed  by  a  dead  silence,  the  birds  all  scared 
and  dumb — a  silence  so  dead,  that  Katherine  Calmady  held 
her  breath,  almost  awed  by  it,  while  the  hissing  and  crackling 
of  the  little  flames  upon  the  hearth  seemed  to  obtrude  as  an 
indecent  clamour.  This  lasted  a  few  seconds.  Then  the 
noise  of  a  plunging  struggle  and  the  mufHed  thud  of  something 
falling  heavily  upon  the  turf. — 

Dr.  Knott  had  been  up  all  night,  but  his  patient,  Lord 
Denier's  second  coachman,  would  pull  through  right  enough ;, 
so  he  started  on  his  homeward  journey  in  a  complacent  frame 
of  mind.  He  reckoned  it  would  save  him  a  couple  of  miles, 
let  alone  the  long  hill  from  Farley  Row  up  to  Spendle  Flats, 
if  on  his  way  back  from  Grimshott  he  went  by  Brockhurst 
House.  It  is  stretching  a  point,  he  admitted,  to  drive  under 
even  your  neighbour's  back  windows  at  five  o'clock  in  the 
morning.  But  the  doctor  being  himself  in  an  unusually 
amiable  attitude,  was  inclined  to  accredit  others  with  a  like 
share  of  good  temper.  Moreover,  the  natural  man  in  him 
cried  increasingly  loudly  for  food  and  bed. 

John  Knott  was  not  given  to  sentimental  rhapsodies  over 


90  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

the  beauties  of  nature.  Like  other  beauties  she  had  her  dirt}* 
enough  moods,  he  thought.  Still,  in  his  own  half-snarling 
fashioFi,  he  dearly  loved  this  forest  country  in  which  he  had 
been  bom  and  bred,  while  he  was  too  keen  a  sportsman  to  be 
unobservant  of  any  aspect  of  wind  and  weather,  any  move- 
ment of  bird  or  beast.  With  the  collar  of  his  long  drab  driv-* 
ing-coat  turned  up  about  his  ears,  and  the  stem  of  a  well- 
coloured  meerschaum  pipe  between  his  teeth,  he  sat  huddled 
together  in  the  high,  swinging  gig,  with  Timothy,  the  weazel- 
faced,  old  groom  by  his  side,  while  the  drama  of  the  opening 
day  unfolded  itself  before  his  somewhat  critical  gaze.  He 
noted  that  it  would  be  fine,  though  windy.  In  the  valley, 
over  the  Long  Water,  spread  beds  of  close,  white  mist.  The 
blue  of  the  upper  sky  was  crossed  by  curved  windows  of  flaky, 
opalescent  cloud.  In  the  east,  above  the  dusky  rim  of  the  fir 
woods  on  the  edge  of  the  high-lying  tableland,  stretched  a 
blinding  blaze  of  rose-saffron,  shading  through  amber  into 
pale  primrose  colour  above.  The  massive  house  front,  and 
the  walls  fencing  the  three  sides  of  the  square  enclosure  be- 
fore it,  with  the  sexagonal,  pepper-pot  summer-houses  at 
either  corner,  looked  pale  and  unsubstantial  in  that  diffused, 
unearthly  light.  At  the  head  of  the  elm  avenue,  passing 
through  the  high,  wrought-iron  gates  and  along  the  carriage 
drive  which  skirts  the  said  enclosure, — the  great,  square  grass 
plot  on  the  right  hand,  the  red  wall  of  the  kitchen  gardens  on 
the  left, — Dr.  Knott  had  the  reins  nearly  jerked  out  of  his 
hand.  The  mare  started  and  swerved,  grazing  the  off  wheel 
against  the  brickwork,  and  stopped,  her  head  in  the  air,  her 
ears  pricked,  her  nostrils  dilated  showing  the  red. 

^' Hullo,  old  girl,  what's  up?  Seen  a  ghost?"  he  said, 
drawing  the  whip  quietly  across  the  hollow  of  her  back. 

But  the  marc  only  braced  herself  more  stiffly,  refusing  to 
move,  while  she  trembled  and  broke  into  a  sudden  sweat. 
The  doctor  was  interested  and  looked  about  him.  He  would 
first  find  the  cause  of  her  queer  behaviour,  and  give  her  a 
good  dressing  down  afterwards  if  she  deserved  it. 

The  smooth,  slightly  up-sloping  lawn  was  powdered  with 
innumerable  dewdrops.  In  the  centre  of  it,  neck  outstretched, 
the  fine  legs  doubled  awkwardly  together,  the  hind  quarters 
and  barrel  rising,  as  it  lay  on  its  side,  in  an  unshapely  lump, 
gray  from  the  drenching  dew^  was  a  dead  horse.     Along  the 


THE  CLOWN  91 

top  of  the  further  wall  a  smart  and  audacious  party  of  jack- 
daws had  stationed  themselves,  with  much  ruffling  of  gray,, 
neck  feathers  impudent  squeakings  and  chatter.  While  a 
pair  of  carrion  crows  hopped  slowly  and  heavily  about  the 
carcass,  flapping  up  with  a  stroke  or  two  of  their  broad  wings 
in  sudden  suspicion,  then  settling  down  again  nearer  than  be-- 
fore. 

"  Go  to  her  head,  Timothy,  and  get  her  by  as  quietly  as 
you  can.  I'll  be  after  you  in  a  minute,  but  Fm  bound  to  see 
what  the  dickens  they've  been  up  to  here." 

As  he  spoke  Dr.  Knott  hitched  himself  down  from  off  the 
gig.  He  was  cramped  with  sitting,  and  moved  forward  awk- 
wardly, his  footsteps  leaving  a  track  of  dark  irregular  patches 
upon  the  damp  grass.  As  he  approached,  the  jackdaws  flung 
themselves  gleefully  upward  from  the  wall,  the  sun  glinting 
on  their  glossy  plumage  as  they  circled  and  sailed  away  across 
the  park.  But  the  crow  who  had  just  begun  work  in  earnest, 
stood  his  ground,  notwithstanding  the  warning  croak  of  his 
more  timid  mate.  He  grasped  the  horse's  skull  with  his 
claws,  and  tore  away  greedily  at  the  fine  skin  about  the  eye- 
socket  with  his  strong,  black  beak. 

"  How's  this,  my  fine  gentleman,  in  too  much  of  a  hurry 
this  morning  to  wait  for  the  flavour  to  get  into  your  meat  ?  '* 
John  Knott  said,  as  the  bird  rose  sullenly  at  last.  "  Got  a 
small  hungry  family  at  home,  I  suppose,  crying  '  give,  give.* 
Well,  that's  taught  better  men  than  you,  before  now,  not  to  be 
too  nice,  but  to  snatch  at  pretty  well  anything  they  can  get." 

He  came  close  and  stood  looking  meditatively  down  at  the 
dead  race-horse — recognised  its  long,  white-reach  face,  the 
colour  and  make  of  it,  while  his  loose  lips  worked  with  a  con- 
temptuous yet  pitying  smile. 

"  So  that's  the  way  my  lady's  taken  it,  has  she  ?  "  he  said 
presently.  "  On  the  whole  I  don't  know  that  I'm  sorry.  In 
some  cases  much  benefit  unquestionably  is  derivable  from  let- 
ting blood.  This  shows  she  doesn't  mean  to  go  under  if  I 
know  her ;  and  that's  a  mercy,  for  that  poor  little  beggar,  the 
baby's  sake." 

He  turned  and  contemplated  the  stately  facade  of  the  house. 
The  ranges  of  windows,  blind  with  closed  shutters  and  drawn 
curtains,  in  the  early  sunshine  gave  off  their  many  panes  a 
broad  dazzle  of  white  light. 


92  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

'^  Poor  little  beggar,"  he  repeated,  ''  with  his  forty  thousand 
a  year  and  all  the  rest  of  it.  Such  a  race  to  run  and  yet  so 
badly  handicapped  !  '* 

He  stooped  down,  examined  ihe  horse,  found  the  mark  of 
the  bullet. 

"  Contradictory  beings,  though,  these  dear  women,"  he 
went  on.  "  So  fanciful  and  delicate,  so  sensitive  you're  afraid 
to  lay  a  finger  on  them.  So  unselfish,  too,  some  of  them, 
they  seem  too  good  for  this  old  rough  and  tumble  of  a  world. 
And  yet  touch  'em  home,  and  they'll  show  an  unscrupulous 
■savagery  of  which  we  coarse  brutes  of  men  should  be  more 
than  half  ashamed.  God  Almighty  made  a  little  more  than 
He  bargained  for  when  He  made  woman.  She  must  have 
surprised  Him  pretty  shrewdly,  one  would  think,  now  and  then 
^ince  the  days  of  the  apple  and  the  snake." 

He  moved  away  up  the  carriage  drive,  following  Timothy, 
the  sweating,  straining  mare,  and  swinging  gig.  The  carrion 
crow  flapped  back,  with  a  croak,  and  dropped  on  the  horse's  skull 
again.  Hearing  that  bodeful  sound  the  doctor  paused  a  mo- 
ment, knocking  the  ashes  out  of  his  pipe,  and  looking  round 
at  the  bird  at  its  ugly  work,  set  as  foreground  to  that  pure 
glory  of  the  sunrise,  and  the  vast  noble  landscape,  misty  val- 
ley, dewy  grassland,  far  ranging  hillside  crowned  with  wood. 

"  The  old  story,"  he  muttered,  "  always  repeating  itself. 
And  it  strikes  one  as  rather  a  wasteful,  clumsy  contrivance,  at 
times.  Life  forever  feeding  on  death — death  forever  breed- 
ing life." 

Thus  ended  the  Clown,  own  brother  to  Touchstone,  of 
merry  name  and  mournful  memory,  paying  the  penalty  of 
wholly  involuntary  transgressions.  From  which  ending  an- 
other era  dated  at  Brockhurst,  the  most  notable  events  of 
which  it  is  the  purpose  of  the  ensuing  pages  duly  to  set  forth. 


BOOK    II 

THE  BREAKING  OF  DREAMS 


CHAPTER   I 


RECORDING    SOME    ASPECTS    OF    A    SMALL    PILGRIM  S    PROGRESS 

TT  Is  an  ill  wind  that  blows  nobody  good,  says  the  comfort- 
able  proverb.  Which  would  appear  to  be  but  another 
manner  of  declaring  that  the  law  of  compensation  works  per- 
manently In  human  affairs.  All  quantities,  material  and  im- 
material alike,  are,  of  necessity,  stable ;  therefore  the  loss  or 
defect  of  one  participant  must — Indirectly,  no  doubt,  yet  very 
surely — make  for  the  gain  of  some  other.  As  of  old,  so  noWy 
the  blood  of  the  martyrs  Is  the  seed  of  the  Church. 

Julius  March  would,  how  gladly,  have  been  among  the 
martyrs  !  But  the  lot  fell  otherwise.  And — always  admitting 
the  harshness  of  the  limitations  he  had  imposed  on  himself — 
the  martyrdom  of  those  he  held  dearest,  did.  In  fact,  work  to 
secure  him  a  measure  of  content  that  had  otherwise  been  un- 
attainable. The  twelve  years  following  the  birth  of  Lady 
Calmady's  child  were  the  most  fruitful  of  his  life.  He  filled 
a  post  no  other  person  could  have  filled  ;  one  which,  while 
satisfying  his  religious  sense  and  priestly  ideal  of  detachment^ 
appeased  the  cravings  of  his  heart  and  developed  the  practical 
man  In  him.  The  contemplative  and  introspective  attitude 
was  balanced  by  an  active  and  objective  one.  For  he  con- 
tinued to  live  under  his  dear  lady's  roof,  seeing  her  daily  and 
serving  her  In  many  matters.  He  watched  her,  admiring  her 
clear  yet  charitable  judgment  and  her  prudence  in  business* 
He  bowed  in  reverence  before  her  perfect  singleness  of  pur- 

93 


^4  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

pose.  He  was  almost  appalled,  apprehending,  now  and  then, 
the  secret  abysses  of  her  womanhood,  the  immensity  of  her 
self-devotion,  the  swing  of  her  nature  from  quick,  sensitive 
shrinking  to  almost  impious  pride.  Man  is  the  outcome  of 
the  eternal  common  sense  ;  woman  that  of  some  moment  of 
divine  folly.  Meanwhile  the  ways  of  true  love  are  many  ; 
and  Julius  March,  thus  watching  his  dear  lady,  discovered,  as 
other  elect  souls  have  discovered  before  him,  that  the  way  of 
chastity  and  silence,  notwithstanding  its  very  constant  heart- 
ache, is  by  no  means  among  the  least  sweet.  The  entries  in 
his  diaries  of  this  period  arc  intermittent,  concise,  and  brief — 
naturally  enough,  since  the  central  figure  of  Julius's  mental 
picture  had  ceased,  happily  for  him,  to  be  himself. 

And  not  only  Katherine's  sorrows,  but  the  unselfish  action 
of  another  woman  went  to  make  Julius  March's  position  at 
Brockhurst  tenable.  A  few  days  after  Ormiston's  momentous 
interview  with  his  sister,  news  came  of  Mrs.  St.  Quentin's 
death.  She  had  passed  hence  peacefully  In  her  sleep.  Knowl- 
edge of  the  facts  of  poor,  little  Dickie  Calmady's  ill-fortune 
had  been  spared  her.  For  It  would  be  more  satisfactory — so 
Mademoiselle  de  MIrancourt  had  remarked,  not  without  a 
shade  of  irony — that  if  Lucia  St.  Quentin  must  learn  the  sad 
fact  at  all,  she  should  do  so  where  le  hon  Dieu  Himself  would 
be  at  hand  to  explain  matters,  and  so,  in  a  degree,  set  them 
right. 

Early  in  April  Mademoiselle  de  MIrancourt  had  gathered 
together  her  most  precious  possessions  and  closed  the  pretty 
apartment  in  the  rue  de  Rennes.  It  had  been  a  happy  halt- 
ing-place on  the  journey  of  life.  It  was  haunted  by  well- 
beloved  ghosts.  It  cost  not  a  little  to  bid  It,  the  neighbouring 
church  of  the  St.  Germain  des  Pres,  where  she  had  so  long 
worshipped,  and  her  little  CQterie  of  Intimate  friends,  farewell. 
Yet  she  set  forth,  taking  with  her  Henriette,  the  hard-featured, 
old,  Breton  maid,  and  Monsieur  Pouf^  the  gray,  Persian  cat, — 
he  protesting  plaintively  from  within  a  large  Manilla  basket, — 
and  thus  accompanied,  made  pilgrimage  to  Brockhurst.  And 
when  Katherine,  all  the  lost  joys  of  her  girlhood  assailing  her 
at  sight  of  her  lifelong  friend,  had  broken  down  for  once,  and, 
laying  her  beautiful  head  on  the  elder  woman's  shoulder,  had 
sobbed  out  a  question  as  to  when  this  visit  must  end,  Marie  de 
MIrancourt  had  answered  — 


THE  BREAKING  OF  DREAMS  95 

*'  That,  most  dear  one,  is  precisely  as  you  shall  see  fit  ta 
decide.     It  need  not  end  till  I  myself  end,  if  you  so  please." 

And  when  Katherine,  greatly  comforted  yet  fearing  to  be 
over-greedy  of  comfort,  had  reasoned  with  her,  reminding  her 
of  tlie  difference  of  climate,  the  different  habits  of  living  in 
that  gay,  little  Paris  home  and  this  great  English  country 
house ;  reminding  her,  further,  of  her  so  often  and  fondly  ex~ 
pressed  desire  to  retire  from  the  world  while  yet  in  the  com- 
plete possession  of  her  powers  and  prepare  for  the  inevitable 
close  within  the  calm  and  sacred  precincts  of  the  convent — 
the  otiier  replied  almost  gaily  — 

"  Ah,  my  child  !  I  have  still  a  naughty  little  spirit  of  experi- 
ment in  me  which  defiles  the  barbarities  of  your  climate. 
While  as  to  the  convent,  it  has  beckoned  so  long — let  it 
beckon  still  !  It  called  first  when  my  fiance  died, — God  rest 
his  soul, — worn  out  by  the  hardships  he  endured  in  the  war 
of  La  Vendee  and  I  put  from  me  forever  all  thought  of  mar- 
riage. But  then  my  mother,  an  emigrant  here  in  London^ 
claimed  all  my  care.  It  called  me  again  when  she  departed, 
dear  saintly  being.  But  then  there  were  my  brother's  sons — 
orphaned  by  the  guillotine — to  place.  And  when  I  had  es- 
tablished them  honourably,  our  beloved  Lucia  turned  to  me,, 
with  her  many  enchantments  and  exquisite  tragedy  of  the 
heart.  And,  now,  in  my  old  age  I  come  to  you — whom  I  re- 
ceive from  her  as  a  welcome  legacy — to  remain  just  so  long  as 
I  am  not  a  burden  to  you.  Second  childhood  and  first  should 
understand  one  another.  We  will  play  delightful  games  to- 
gether, the  dear  baby  and  I.  So  let  the  convent  beckon.  For 
the  convent  is  perhaps,  after  all,  but  an  impatient  grasping  at 
the  rest  of  paradise,  before  that  rest  is  fairly  earned.  I  have 
a  good  hope  that,  after  all,  we  give  ourselves  most  acceptably 
to  God  in  thus  giving  ourselves  to  His  human  creatures." 

Thus  did  Marie  de  Mirancourt,  for  love's  sake,  condemn 
herself  to  exile,  thereby  rendering  possible — among  other 
things — Julius's  continued  residence  at  Brockhurst.  P'or  Cap- 
tain Ormiston  had  held  true  to  his  resolve  of  scorning  the  de- 
lights of  idlen-ess,  the  smiles  of  ladies  more  kind  than  wise,, 
and  all  those  other  pleasant  iniquities  to  which  idleness  in- 
clines the  young  and  full-blooded,  of  bidding  farewell  to  Lon- 
don and  Windsor,  and  proceeding  to  "live  laborious  days"  in 
some  far  country.     He  had  offered  to  remain  indefinitely  with 


96  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

Katherlne  if  she  needed  him.  But  she  refused.  Let  him  be 
faithful  to  the  noble  profession  of  arms  and  make  a  name  for 
himself  therein. 

"  Brockhurst  has  ceased  to  be  a  place  for  a  soldier,"  she 
said.  "  Leave  it  to  women  and  priests  !  "  And  then,  repent- 
ing of  the  bitterness  of  her  speech,  she  added  : — "  Really  there 
is  not  more  work  than  I  can  manage,  with  Julius  to  help  me 
at  times.  lies  is  a  good  servant  if  a  little  tediously  pompous, 
and  Chifney  must  see  to  the  stables." — Lady  Calmady  paused, 
and  her  face  grew  hard.  But  for  her  husband's  dying  request, 
she  would  have  sold  every  horse  in  the  stud,  razed  the  great 
square  of  buildings  to  the  ground  and  made  the  site  of  it  a 
dunghill.  "  Work  is  a  drug  to  deaden  thought.  So  it  is  a 
kindness  to  let  me  have  plenty  of  it,  dear  old  man.  And  I 
fear,  even  when  the  labour  of  each  day  is  done,  and  Dickie  is 
safe  asleep, — poor  darling, — I  shall  still  have  more  than 
enough  of  time  for  thought,  for  asking  those  questions  to 
which  there  seems  no  answer,  and  for  desires,  vain  as  they  are 
persistent,  that  things  were  somehow,  anyhow,  other  than  they 
are ! " 

Therefore  it  came  about  that  a  singular  quiet  settled  down 
on  Brockhurst — a  quiet  of  waiting,  of  pause,  rather  than  of 
accomplishment.  But  Julius  March,  for  reasons  aforesaid,  and 
Mademoiselle  de  Mirancourt,  in  virtue  of  her  unclouded  faith 
in  the  teachings  of  her  Church, — which  assures  its  members  of 
the  beneficent  purpose  working  behind  all  the  sad  seeming  of 
this  world, — alike  rejoiced  in  that.  A  change  of  occupations 
and  of  interests  came  naturally  with  the  change  of  the  seasons, 
with  the  time  to  sow  and  reap,  to  plant  saplings,  to  fell  timber, 
to  fence,  to  cut  copsing,  to  build  or  rebuild,  to  receive  rents  or 
remit  them,  to  listen  to  many  appeals,  to  readjust  differences, 
to  feed  game  or  to  shoot  it,  to  bestow  charity  of  meat  and  fuel, 
to  haul  ice  in  winter  to  the  ice-house  from  the  la-ke.  But  beyond 
all  this  there  was  little  going  or  coming  at  Brockhurst.  The 
magnates  of  the  countryside  called  at  decent  intervals,  and  at 
decent  intervals  Lady  Calmady  returned  their  civilities.  But 
having  ceased  to  entertain,  she  refused  to  receive  entertainment. 
She  shut  herself  away  in  somewhat  jealous  seclusion,  defiant  of 
possibly  curious  glances  and  pitying  tongues.  Before  long  her 
neighbours,  therefore,  came  to  raise  their  eyebrows  a  little  in 
speaking  of  her,  and  to  utter  discreet  regrets  that  Lady  Calmady, 


THE  BREAKING  OF  DREAMS  97 

though  handsome  and  charming  when  you  saw  her,  was  so  very 
eccentric,  adding — "  Of  course  every  one  knows  there  is  some-- 
thing  very  uncomfortable  about  the  little  boy  !  "  Then  would 
follow  confidences  as  to  the  disastrous  results  of  popish  influ- 
ences and  Romanising  tendencies ;  and  an  openly  expressed 
conviction — more  especially  on  the  part  of  ladies  blessed  with 
daughters  of  marriageable  age — that  it  would  have  been  so  ver\ 
much  better  for  many  people  if  the  late  Sir  Richard  Calmady 
had  looked  nearer  home  for  a  bride. 

But  these  comments  did  not  afFect  Katherine.  In  point  of 
fact  they  rarely  reached  her  ears.  Alone  among  her  neigh- 
bours, Mary  Cathcart,  of  the  crisp,  black  hair  and  gipsy-like 
complexion,  was  still  admitted  to  some  intimacy  of  intercourse* 
And  the  girl  was  far  too  loyal  either  to  bring  in  gossip  or  to 
carry  it  out.  Brockhurst  held  the  romance  of  her  heart.  And,, 
notwithstanding  the  earnest  wooing — as  the  years  went  on — of 
more  than  one  very  eligible  gentleman,  Brockhurst  continued 
to  hold  it. 

Meanwhile  the  somewhat  quaint  fixed  star  around  which 
this  whole  system  of  planets,  large  and  small,  very  really  re- 
volved, shone  forth  upon  them  all  with  a  cheerful  enough  light. 
For  Dickie  by  no  means  belied  the  promise  of  his  babyhood. 
He  was  a  beautiful  and  healthy  little  boy,  with  a  charming 
brilliance  of  colouring,  warm  and  solid  in  tone.  He  had  his 
mother's  changeful  eyes,  though  the  blue  of  them  was  brighter 
than  hers  had  now  come  to  be.  He  had  her  dark  eyebrows 
and  eyelashes  too,  and  her  finely  curved  lips.  While  he  bore 
likeness  to  his  father  in  the  straight,  square-tipped  nose  and  the 
close-fitting  cap  of  bright,  brown  hair  with  golden  stains  in  it^ 
growing  low  in  short  curling  locks  on  the  broad  forehead  and 
the  nape  of  the  neck — expressing  the  shape  of  the  head  verv 
definitely,  and  giving  it  something  of  antique  nobility  and 
grace. 

And  the  little  lad's  appearance  afforded,  in  these  pleasant 
early  days  at  all  events,  fair  index  to  his  temperament.  He  was 
gay-natured,  affectionate,  intelligent,  full  of  a  lively  yet  cour- 
teous curiosity,  easily  moved  to  laughter,  almost  inconveniently 
fearless  and  experimental ;  while  his  occasional  thunderbursts 
of  passion  cleared  off"  quickly  into  sunshine  and  blue  sky  again. 
For  as  yet  the  burden  of  deformity  rested  upon  him  very  lightly. 
He  associated  hardly  at  all  with  other  children,  and  had  but 


98  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

scant  occasion  to  measure  his  poor  powers  of  locomotion 
against  their  normal  ones.  Lady  Fallowfeild  it  is  true,  in 
obedience  to  suggestions  on  the  part  of  her  kindly  lord  and 
master,  offered  tentatively  to  import  a  carriage  load — little 
Ludovic  Quayle  was  just  the  same  age  as  Dickie — from  the 
Whitney  nurseries  to  spend  the  day. 

"  Good  fellow,  Calmady.  I  liked  Calmady,''  Lord  Fallow- 
feild had  said  to  her.  His  conversation,  it  may  be  observed, 
was  nothing  if  not  interjcctional.  "  Pretty  woman.  Lady  Cal- 
mady— terrible  thing  for  her  being  left  as  she  is.  Always  shall 
regret  Calmady.  Very  sorry  for  her.  Always  have  been  sorry 
for  a  pretty  woman  in  trouble.  Ought  to  see  something  of 
her,  my  dear.  The  two  estates  join,  and,  as  I  always  have 
said,  it's  a  duty  to  support  your  own  class.  Can't  expect  the 
masses  to  respect  you  unless  you  show  them  you're  prepared 
to  stand  by  your  own  class.  Just  take  some  of  the  children 
over  to  see  Lady  Calmady.  Pretty  children,  do  her  good  to 
see  them.  Rode  uncommonly  straight  did  Calmady.  Terribly 
upsetting  thing  his  funeral.  Never  shall  forget  it.  Always  did 
like  Calmady — good  fellow,  Calmady.    Nasty  thing  his  death." 

But  Katherine's  pen  was  fertile  in  excuses  to  avoid  the 
invasion  from  Whitney.  Lady  Fallowfeild's  small  brains  and 
large  domestic  complacency  were  too  trying  to  her.  And  that 
noble  lady,  it  must  be  owned,  was  secretly  not  a  little  glad  to 
have  her  advances  thus  firmly,  though  gently,  repulsed.  For 
she  was  alarmed  at  Lady  Calmady's  reported  acquaintance  with 
foreign  lands  and  with  books ;  added  to  which  her  simple  mind 
harboured  much  grisly  though  vague  terror  concerning  the 
Roman  Church.  Picture  all  her  brood  of  little  Quayles  incon- 
tinently converted  into  little  monks  and  nuns  with  shaven 
heads  !  How  such  sudden  conversion  could  be  accomplished 
Lady  Fallowfeild  did  not  presume  to  explain.  It  sufficed  her 
that  "  everybody  always  said  Papists  were  so  dreadfully  clever 
and  unscrupulous  you  never  could  tell  what  they  might  not  do 


next." 


Once,  when  Dickie  was  about  six  years  old.  Colonel  St. 
Quentin  brought  his  young  wife  and  two  little  girls  to  stay  at 
Brockhurst.  Kathcrine  had  a  great  regard  for  her  cousin,  yet 
the  visit  was  never  repeated.  On  the  flat  poor  Dick  could 
manage  fairly  well,  his  strangely  shod  feet  traveling  laboriously 
along  in  effort  after  rapidity  j  his  hands  hastily  outstretched 


THE  BREAKING  OF  DREAMS  99 

now  and  again  to  lay  hold  of  door-jamb  or  table-edge,  since 
his  balance  was  none  of  the  securest.  But  in  that  delightfully 
varied  journey  from  the  nursery,  by  way  of  his  mother's  bed- 
room, the  Chapel-Room  next  door,  the  broad  stair-head, — with 
its  carven  balusters,  shiny  oak  flooring,  and  fine  landscapes  by 
Claude  and  Hobbema, — the  state  drawing-room  and  Hbraries, 
to  that  America  of  his  childish  dreams,  that  country  of  mag- 
nificent distances  and  large  possibility  of  discovery,  the  Long 
Gallery,  he  was  speedily  distanced  by  the  three-year-old  Betty^ 
let  alone  her  six-year-old  sister  Honoria,  a  tall,  slim,  little 
maiden,  daintily  high-bred  of  face  and  fleet  of  foot  as  a  hind. 
This  was  bad  enough.  But  the  stairways  afforded  yet  more 
aflilicting  experiences — the  descent  of  even  the  widest  and 
shallowest  flights  presented  matter  of  insuperable  difficulty ; 
while  the  ascent  was  only  to  be  achieved  by  recourse  to  all- 
fours,  against  the  ignominy  of  which  mode  of  progression 
Dickie's  soul  revolted.  And  so  the  little  boy  concluded  that 
he  did  not  care  much  about  little  girls;  and  confided  to  his^ 
devoted  play-fellow  Clara — Mrs.  Denny's  niece  and  sometime 
second  still-room  maid,  now  promoted,  on  account  of  her  many 
engaging  qualities,  to  be  Dickie's  special  attendant — that : — 

"  They  went  so  quick,  they  always  left  him  behind,  and  it 
was  not  nice  to  be  left  behind,  and  it  was  very  rude  of  them  ta 
do  it  j  didn't  Clara  think  so  ?  " 

And  Clara,  as  in  duty  and  affection  bound,  not  without  ad- 
ditional testimony  in  a  certain  dimness  of  her  pretty,  honesty 
brown  eyes,  did  indeed  very  much  think  so.  It  followed,  there- 
fore, that  Dickie  saw  the  St.  Quentin  family  drive  away, 
nurses  and  luggage  complete,  quite  unmoved.  And  returned 
with  satisfaction  and  renewed  self-confidence  to  the  exclusive 
society  of  all  those  dear  grown-up  people — gentle  and  simple 
— who  were  never  guilty  of  leaving  him  behind;  to  that  of 
Camp,  the  old,  white  bulldog,  and  young  Camp,  his  son  and 
heir,  who,  if  they  so  far  forgot  themselves  as  to  run  away,  in- 
variably ran  back  again  and  apologised,  fawning  upon  him  and 
pushing  their  broad,  ugly,  kindly  muzzles  into  his  hands;  and 
to  that  of  Monsieur  Pouf^  the  gray  Persian  cat,  who,  far  from 
going  too  quickly,  displayed  such  majestic  deliberation  of  move- 
ment and  admirable  dignity  of  waving  fluffed  tail,  that  it  re- 
quired much  patient  coaxing  on  Dickie's  part  ever  to  make 
him  leave  his  cushion  by  the  fire  and  go  at  all. 


100  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

But^  with  the  above-mentioned  exception,  the  little  boy's 
self-content  suffered  but  slight  disturbance.  He  took  himself 
very  much  for  granted.  He  was  very  curious  of  outside 
things,  very  much  amused.  Moreover,  he  was  king  of  a  far 
from  contemptible  kingdom ;  and  in  the  blessed  ignorance  of 
childhood — that  finds  pride  and  honour  in  things  which  a 
wider  and  sadder  knowledge  often  proves  far  from  glad  or 
glorious — it  appeared  to  him  not  unnatural  that  a  king  should 
differ,  even  to  the  point  of  some  slightly  impeding  disabilities, 
from  the  rank  and  file  of  his  obedient  and  devoted  subjects. 
For  Dickie,  happily  for  him,  was  as  yet  given  over  to  that 
wholly  pleasant  vanity,  the  aristocratic  idea.  The  rough  jus- 
tice of  democracy,  and  the  harsh  breaking  of  all  purely  per- 
sonal and  individualistic  dreams  that  comes  along  with  it,  for 
him,  was  not  just  yet. 

And  Richard's  continued  and  undismayed  acquiescence  in 
his  physical  misfortune  was  fostered,  indirectly,  by  the  captiva- 
ting poetry  of  myth  and  legend  with  which  his  mind  was  fed. 
He  had  an  insatiable  appetite  for  stories,  and  Mademoiselle  de 
Mirancourt  was  an  untiring  raconteuse.  On  Sunday  after- 
noons upon  the  terrace,  when  the  park  lay  bathed  in  drowsy 
sunshine  and  sapphire  shadows  haunted  the  under  edge  of  the 
great  woods,  the  pretty  old  lady — her  eyes  shining  with  gen- 
tle laughter,  for  Marie  de  Mirancourt's  faith  had  reached  the 
very  perfect  stage  in  which  the  soul  dares  play,  even  as  lovers 
play,  with  that  it  holds  most  sacred — would  tell  Dickie — the 
fairy  tales  of  her  Church.  Would  tell  him  of  blessed  St. 
Francis  and  of  Poverty,  his  sweet,  sad  bride ;  of  his  sermon 
to  the  birds  dwelling  in  the  oak  groves  along  Tiber  valley  -,  of 
the  mystic  stigmata,  marking  as  with  nail  prints  his  hands  and 
feet,  and  of  that  indomitable  love  towards  all  creatures,  which 
found  alike  in  the  sun  in  heaven  and  the  heavy-laden  ass, 
brothers  and  friends.  Or  she  would  tell  him  of  that  man  of 
mighty  strength  and  stature,  St.  Christopher,  who,  in  the 
stormy  darkness, — yielding  to  its  reiterated  entreaties, — set 
forth  to  bear  the  little  child  across  the  wind-swept  ford.  How 
he  staggered  in  midstream,  amazed  and  terrified  under  the 
awful  weight  of  that,  apparently  so  light,  burden ;  to  learn, 
on  struggling  ashore  at  last,  that  he  had  borne  upon  his 
shoulder  no  mortal  infant,  but  the  whole  world  and  the  eternal 
maker  of  it,  Christ  Himself. 


THE  BREAKING  OF  DREAMS  joi; 

These  and  many  another  wonder  tale  of  Christian  miracle 
did  she  tell  to  Dickie — he  squatting  on  a  rug  beside  her,  rest- 
ing his  curly  head  against  her  knees,  while  the  pink-footed 
pigeons  hurried  hither  and  thither,  picking  up  the  handfuls  of 
barley  he  scattered  on  the  flags,  and  the  peacocks  sunned 
themselves  with  a  certain  worldly  and  disdainful  grace  on  the 
hand-rails  of  the  gray  balustrades,  and  young  Camp,  after  some 
wild  skirmish  in  search  of  sport,  flung  himself  down  panting, 
his   tongue  lolling  out  of  his  grinning  jaws,  by  the  boy's  side» 

And  Katherine,  putting  aside  her  cares  as  regent  of  Dickie's 
kingdom  and  the  sorrow  that  lay  so  chill  against  her  heart,, 
would  tell  him  stories  too,  but  of  a  different  order  of  senti- 
ment and  of  thought.  For  Katherine  was  young  yet,  and  her 
stories  were  gallant — since  her  own  spirit  was  very  brave — or 
merry,  because  it  delighted  her  to  hear  the  boy  laugh.  And 
often,  as  he  grew  a  little  older,  she  would  sit  with  her  arm 
round  him,  in  the  keen,  winter  twilights  before  the  lamps- 
were  lit,  on  the  broad  cushioned  bench  of  the  oriel  window  in 
the  Chapel-Room.  Outside,  the  stars  grew  in  number  and 
brightness  as  the  dusk  deepened.  Within,  the  firelight  played 
over  the  white-paneled  walls,  revealing  fitfully  the  handsome 
faces  of  former  Calmadys — short-lived,  passing  hence  all  un- 
saved with  the  desperate  joys  of  living — painted  by  Vandyke 
and  Sir  Peter  Lely,  or  by  Romney  and  Sir  Joshua.  Then  she 
would  tell  him  not  only  of  Aladdin,  of  Cinderella,  and  time-^ 
honoured  Puss-in-Boots,  but  of  Merlin  the  great  enchanter^ 
and  of  King  Arthur  and  his  company  of  noble  knights.  And 
of  the  loves  of  Sigurd  the  Niblung  and  Brunhiida  the  wise 
and  terrible  queen,  and  of  their  lifelong  sorrow,  and  of  the 
fateful  treasure  of  fairy  gold  which  lies  buried  beneath  the 
rushing  waters  of  the  Rhine.  Or  she  would  tell  him  of  those 
cold,  clear,  far-off  times  in  the  northern  sojourning  places  of 
our  race — tell  him  of  the  cow  Audhumla,  alone  in  the  vast 
plain  at  the  very  beginning  of  things,  licking  the  stones 
crusted  over  with  hoar  frost  and  salt,  till,  on  the  third  day, 
there  sprung  from  them  a  warrior  named  Bur,  the  father  of 
Bor,  the  father  of  Odin,  who  is  the  father  of  all  the  gods^ 
She  would  tell  him  of  wicked  Loki  too,  the  deceiver  and  cun- 
ning plotter  against  the  peace  of  heaven.  And  of  his  three 
evil  children — here  Dickie  would,  for  what  reason  he  knew 
not,  always  feel  his  mother  hold  him  more  closely,  while  her 


r6i  SIR-  RICHARD  CALMADY 

voice  took  a  deeper  tone — Fenrir  the  wolf,  who,  when  Thor 
sought  to  bind  him,  bit  off  the  brave  god's  right  hand  ;  and 
Jormungand  the  Midgard  serpent,  who,  tail  in  mouth,  circles 
the  world ;  and  Hela,  the  pale  queen,  who  reigns  in  Niflheim 
over  the  dim  kingdoms  of  the  dead.  And  of  Baldur  the 
bright  shining  god,  joy  of  Asgard,  slain  in  error  by  Hoder  his 
blind  twin-brother;  for  whom  all  things  on  earth — save  one — 
weep,  and  will  weep,  till  in  the  last  days  he  comes  again. 
And  of  All-Father  Odin  himself,  plucking  out  his  right  eye 
and  bartering  it  for  a  draught  of  wisdom-giving  water  from 
Mirmir's  magic  well.  Again,  she  would  tell  him  of  the  End 
— which  it  must  be  owned  frightened  Dickie  a  little,  so  that 
he  would  stroke  her  cheek,  and  say  softly,  '^  But,  mummy, 
you  really  are  sure,  aren't  you,  it  won't  happen  for  a  good 
while  yet  ?  " — Of  Ragnarok,  the  Twilight  of  the  Gods ; 
of  the  Fimbul  winter,  and  cheerless  sun  and  hurrying,  blood- 
red  moon,  and  all  the  direful  signs  which  must  needs  go  be- 
fore the  last  great  battle  between  good  and  evil. 

And  through  all  of  these  stories,  of  Christian  and  heathen 
origin  alike,  Richard  began  dimly,  almost  unconsciously,  to 
trace,  recurrent  as  a  strain  of  austere  music,  the  idea — very 
common  to  ages  less  soft  and  fastidious  than  our  own — of 
payment  in  self-restraint  and  labour,  or  in  actual  bodily  pain, 
loss,  or  disablement,  for  all  good  gained  and  knowledge  won. 

He  found  the  same  idea  again  when,  under  the  teaching  of 
Julius  March,  he  began  reading  history,  and  when  his  little 
-skill  in  Greek  and  Latin  carried  him  as  far  as  the  easier  pas- 
sages of  the  classic  poets.  Dick  was  a  very  apt,  if  somewhat 
erratic  and  inaccurate,  scholar.  His  insatiable  curiosity  drove 
him  forward.  He  scurried,  in  childish  fashion  by  all  short- 
cuts available,  to  get  at  the  heart  of  the  matter — a  habit  of 
mind  detestsible  to  pedants,  since  to  them  the  letter  is  the 
main  object,  not  the  spirit.  Happily  Julius  was  ceasing  to  be 
a  pedant,  even  in  matters  ecclesiastical.  He  loved  the  little 
boy,  the  mingled  charm  and  pathos  of  whose  personality  held 
him  as  with  a  spell.  With  untiring  patience  he  answered,  to 
the  best  of  his  ability,  Dickie's  endless  questions,  of  how  and 
why.  And,  perhaps,  he  learned  even  more  than  he  taught, 
under  this  fire  of  cross-examination.  He  had  never  come  in- 
timately in  contact  with  a  child's  mind  before;  and  Dickie's 
daring  speculations  and  suggestions  opened  up  very  surprising 


THE  BREAKING  OF  DREAMS  103 

vistas  at  times.  The  boy  was  a  born  adventurer;  a  gaily 
audacious  sceptic  moreover,  notwithstanding  his  large  swallow 
for  romance,  until  his  own  morsel  of  reason  and  sense  of 
dramatic  fitness  were  satisfied. 

And  so,  having  once  apprehended  that  idea  of  payment,  he 
searched  for  justification  of  it  instinctively  in  all  he  saw  and 
read.  He  found  it  again  in  the  immortal  story  of  the  siege  of 
Troy,  and  in  the  long  wanderings  and  manifold  trials  of  that 
most  experimental  of  philosophers,  the  great  Ulysses.  He 
found  it  too  in  more  modern  and  more  authentic  history — in 
the  lives  of  Galileo  and  Columbus,  of  Sir  Walter  Raleigh  and 
many  another  hero  and  heroine,  of  whom,  because  of  some 
unusual  excellence  of  spirit  or  attainment,  their  fellow-men, 
and,  as  it  would  seem,  the  very  gods  themselves,  have  grown 
jealous,  not  enduring  to  witness  a  beauty  rivalling  or  surpass- 
ing their  own. 

The  idea  was  all  confused  as  yet,  coloured  by  childish 
fancies,  instinctive  merely,  not  realised.  Yet  it  occupied  a 
very  actual  place  in  the  little  boy's  mind.  He  lingered  over 
it  silently,  caressing  it,  returning  to  it  again  and  again  in  half- 
frightened  delight.  It  lent  a  fascination,  somewhat  morbid 
perhaps,  to  all  ill-favoured  and  unsightly  creatures — to  blind 
worms  and  slow-moving  toads ;  to  trapped  cats  and  dusty,  dis- 
abled, winter  flies  ;  to  a  winged  sea-gull,  property  of  Bushnell, 
one  of  the  under-gardeners,  that  paced,  picking  up  loathsome 
living  in  the  matter  of  slugs  and  snails,  about  the  cabbage  beds, 
all  the  tragedy  of  its  lost  power  of  flight  and  of  the  freedom 
of  the  sea  in  its  wild,  pale  eyes. 

It  further  provoked  Dickie  to  expend  all  his  not  incon- 
siderable gift  of  draughtsmanship,  in  the  production  of  long 
processions  of  half-human  monsters  of  a  grotesque  and  essen- 
tially uncomfortable  character.  He  scribbled  these  upon  all 
available  pieces  of  paper,  including  the  fly-leaves  of  Todhunter's 
Arithmetic,  and  of  his  Latin  and  Greek  primers.  In  an  evil 
hour,  for  the  tidiness  of  his  school-books,  he  came  across  the 
ballad  of  "  Aiken-Drum,"  with  its  rather  terrible  mixture  of 
humour,  realism,  and  the  supernatural.  From  thenceforth  for 
some  weeks — though  he  adroitly  avoided  giving  any  direct 
account  of  the  origin  of  these  grisly  imaginative  freaks — many 
margins  were  adorned,  or  rather  defaced,  by  fancy  portraits  of 
that  "  foul  and  stalwart  ghaist "  the  Brownie  of  Badnock^ 


104  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

So  did  Dickie  dwell,  through  all  his  childhood  and  the  early 
years  of  youth,  in  the  dear  land  of  dreams,  petted,  considered, 
sheltered  with  perhaps  almost  cruel  kindness,  from  the  keen 
winds  of  truth  that  blow  forever  across  the  world.  Which 
winds,  while  causing  all  to  suffer  and  bringing  death  to  the 
weak  and  fearful,  to  the  lovers  of  lies  and  the  makers  of  them,  go 
in  the  end  to  strengthen  the  strong  who  dare  face  them,  and 
fortify  these  in  the  acceptance  of  the  only  knowledge  really 
worth  having — namely,  the  knowledge  that  romance  is  no  ex- 
clusive property  of  the  past,  or  eternal  life  of  the  future,  but 
that  both  these  are  here  immediately  and  actually  for  whoso 
has  eyes  to  see  and  courage  to  possess. 

The  fairest  dreams  are  true.  Yet  it  is  so  ordered  that  to 
know  that  we  must  awake  from  them.  And  the  awakening  is 
an  ugly  process  enough,  too  often.  When  Dickie  was  about 
thirteen,  the  awakening  began  for  him.  It  came  in  time- 
honoured  forms — those  of  horses  and  of  a  woman. 


CHAPTER   II 

IN    WHICH     OUR    HERO     IMPROVES     HIS     ACQUAINTANCE     WITH 
MANY    THINGS — HIMSELF    INCLUDED 

TT  came  about  in  this  wise.  Roger  Ormiston  was  expected 
at  Brockhurst,  after  an  absence  of  some  years.  He  had 
served  with  distinction  in  the  Sikh  war;  and  had  seen  fighting 
on  a  grand  scale  in  the  battles  of  Sobraon  and  Chillianwallah. 
Later,  the  restless  genius  of  travel  had  taken  hold  on  him, 
leading  him  far  eastward  into  China,  and  northward  across  the 
Himalayan  snows.  He  had  dwelt  among  strange  peoples  and 
looked  on  strange  gods.  He  had  hunted  strange  beasts,  more- 
over, and  learnt  their  polity  and  their  ways.  He  had  seen  the 
bewildering  fecundity  of  nature  in  the  tropic  jungle,  and  her 
barren  and  terrible  beauty  in  the  out-stretch  of  the  naked  desert. 
And  the  thought  of  all  this  set  Dickie's  imagination  on  fire. 
The  return  of  Roger  Ormiston  was,  to  him,  as  the  return  of 
the  mighty  Ulysses  himself. 

For  a  change  was  coming  over  the  boy.      He  began  to  weary 
of  fable  and  cry  out  for  fact.     He  had  just  entered  his  four- 


THE  BREAKING  OF  DREAMS  105 

teenih  year.  He  was  growing  fast ;  and,  but  for  that  dwarfing 
deformity,  would  have  been  unusually  tall,  graceful  and  well- 
proportioned.  But  along  with  this  increase  of  stature  had 
come  a  listlessness  and  languor  which  troubled  Lady  Calmady. 
The  boy  was  sweet-tempered  enough,  had  his  hours,  indeed, 
of  overflowing  fun  and  high  spirits.  Still  he  was  restless  and 
tired  easily  of  each  occupation  in  turn.  He  developed  a  dis- 
quieting relish  for  solitude ;  and  took  to  camping-out  on  one 
of  the  broad  window-seats  of  the  Long  Gallery,  in  company 
with  volumes  of  Captain  Cook's  and  Hakluyt's  voyages,  old-time 
histories  of  sport  and  natural  history ;  not  to  mention  Robin- 
son Crusoe  and  the  merry  but  doubtfully  decent  pages  of 
Geoffrey  Gambado.  And  his  mother  noted,  not  without  a 
sinking  of  the  heart,  that  the  window-seat,  which  in  his  soli- 
tary moods  Dickie  most  frequented,  was  precisely  that  one  of 
the  eastern  bay  which  commanded — beyond  the  smooth,  green 
expanse  and  red  walls  of  the  troco-ground — a  good  view  of 
the  grass  ride,  running  parallel  with  the  lime  avenue,  along 
which  the  horses  from  the  racing  stables  were  taken  out  and 
back,  morning  and  evening,  to  the  galloping  ground.  Then 
fears  began  to  assail  Katherlne  that  the  boy's  childhood,  the 
content  and  repose  of  it,  were  nearly  past.  Small  wonder  that 
her  heart  should  sink  ! 

On  the  day  of  her  brother's  return,  Katherine,  after  rather 
anxious  search,  so  found  Richard.  He  was  standing  on  the 
book-strewn  window-seat.  He  had  pushed  open  the  tall  narrow 
casement  and  leaned  out.  The  April  afternoon  was  fitfully 
bright.  A  rainbow  spanned  the  landscape,  from  the  Long 
Water  in  the  valley  to  the  edge  of  the  forest  crowning  the 
table-land.  Here  and  there  showers  of  rain  fell,  showing  white 
against  huge  masses  of  purple  cloud  piled  up  along  the 
horizon. 

And  as  Katherine  drew  near,  threading  her  way  carefully 
between  the  Chinese  cabinets,  oriental  jars,  and  many  quaint 
treasures  furnishing  the  end  of  the  great  room,  she  saw  that, 
along  the  grass  ride,  some  twenty  race-horses,  came  streeling 
homeward  in  single  file — a  long  line  of  brown,  chestnut,  black, 
and  of  the  raw  yellows  and  scarlets  of  horse-clothing  against 
the  delicate  green  of  springing  turf  and  opening  leaves.  Be- 
side them,  clad  in  pepper-and-salt  mixture,  breeches  and  gaiters 
complete,  Mr.  Chifney  pricked  forward  soberly  on  his  hand- 


io6  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

some  gray  cob.  The  boys  called  to  one  another  now  and 
then,  admonished  a  fretful  horse  breaking  away  from  the  string. 
One  of  them  whistled  shrilly  a  few  bars  of  that  then 
popular  but  undistinguished  tune,  ''  Pop  goes  the  weazel.'* 
And  Richard  craned  far  out,  steadying  himself  against  the 
«tone  mullion  on  either  side  with  uplifted  hands,  heedless  alike 
of  his  mother's  presence  and  of  the  heavy  drops  of  rain  which 
splattered  in  at  the  open  casement. 

"  Dickie,  Dickie,"  Katherine  called,  in  swift  anxiety.  "  Be 
careful.     You  will  fall." 

She  came  close,  putting  her  arm  round  him.  "  You  reck- 
less darling,"  she  went  on ;  "  don't  you  see  how  dangerous 
the  least  slip  would  be  ?  " 

The  boy  straightened  himself  and  looked  round  at  her.  His 
blue  eyes  were  alight.  All  the  fitful  brightness,  all  the  wistful 
charm  of  the  April  evening  was  in  his  face. 

"  But  it's  the  only  place  where  I  can  see  them,  and  they're 
such  beauties,"  he  said.  "And  I  want  to  see  them  so  much. 
You  know  we  always  miss  them  somehow,  mummy,  when  we 
go  out." 

Katherine  was  off  her  guard.  Three  separate  strains  of 
feeling  influenced  her  just  then.  First,  her  growing  recognition 
of  the  change  in  Richard,  of  that  passing  away  of  childhood 
which  could  not  but  make  for  difficulty  and,  in  a  sense,  for 
pain.  Secondly,  the  natural  excitement  of  her  brother's  home- 
coming, disturbing  the  monotony  of  her  daily  life,  bringing, 
along  with  very  actual  joy,  memories  of  a  past,  well-beloved  yet 
gone  beyond  recall.  Lastly,  the  practical  and  immediate  fear 
that  Dickie  had  come  uncommonly  near  tumbling  incontinently 
out  of  the  window.  And  so,  being  moved,  she  held  the  boy 
tightly  and  answered  rather  at  random,  thereby  provoking  fate. 

"  Yes,  my  dearest,  I  know  we  always  miss  them  somehow 
when  we  go  out.  It  is  best  so.  But  do  pray  be  more  careful 
with  these  high  windows." 

"  Oh  !  I'm  all  right — I'm  careful  enough."  His  glance 
had  gone  back  to  where  the  last  of  the  horses  passed  out  of 
sight  behind  the  red  wall  of  the  gardens.  "  But  why  is  it  best 
so  ?     Ah  !   they're  gone  !  "  he  exclaimed. 

Katherine  sat  down  on  the  window-seat,  and  Richard,  cling- 
ing on  to  the  window-ledge,  while  she  still  held  him,  lowered 
himself  into  a  sitting  position  beside  her. 


THE  BREAKING  OF  DREAMS  107 

"  Thank  vou,  mummy,"  he  said.  And  the  words  cut  her. 
They  came  so  often  in  each  day,  and  always  with  the  same 
little  touch  of  civil  dignity.  The  courtesy  of  Richard's  recog- 
nition of  help  given,  failed  to  comfort  her  for  the  fact  that  help 
was  so  constantly  required.  Lady  Calmady's  sense  of  rebellion 
arose  and  waxed  strong  whenever  she  heard  these  thanks. 

"Mother,"  he  went  on,  "  I  want  to  asl.  ycu  something. 
You  won't  mind  ?  " 

"  Do  I  ever  mind  you  questioning  me  ?  "  Yet  she  felt  a 
certain  tightening  about  her  heart. 

"Ah,  but  this  is  different!  I've  wanted  to  for  a  long 
while,  but  I  did  not  know  if  I  ought — and  yet  I  did  not  quite 
like  to  ask  Auntie  Marie  or  Julius.  And,  of  course,  one 
doesn't  speak  to  the  servants  about  anything  of  that  sort." 

Richard's  curly  head  went  up  with  a  fine,  little  air  of  pride 
as  he  said  the  last  few  words.  His  mother  smiled  at  him. 
There  was  no  doubt  as  to  her  son's  breeding. 

"  Well,  what  then  ?  "  she  said. 

"  I  want  to  know — you're  sure  you  don't  mind — why  you 
dislike  the  horses,  and  never  go  to  the  stables  or  take  me  there  ? 
If  the  horses  are  wrong,  why  do  we  keep  them  ?  And  if 
they're  not  wrong,  why,  mother,  don't  you  see,  we  may  enjoy 
them,  mayn't  we  ?  " 

He  flushed,  looking  up  at  her,  spoke  coaxingly,  merrily,  a 
trifle  embarrassed  by  his  own  temerity,  yet  keen  to  prove  his 
point  and  acquire  possession  of  this  so  coveted  joy. 

Katherine  hesitated.  She  was  tempted  to  put  aside  his 
question  with  some  playful  excuse.  And  yet,  where  was  the 
use  ?  The  question  must  inevitably  be  answered  one  day ; 
and  Katherine,  as  had  been  said,  was  moved  just  now,  dumb- 
ness of  long  habit  somewhat  melted.  Perhaps  this  was  the 
appointed  time.  She  drew  her  arm  from  around  the  boy  and 
took  both  his  hands  in  hers. 

"  My  dearest,"  she  said,  "  our  keeping  the  horses  is  not 
wrong.     But — one  of  the  horses  killed  your  father." 

Richard's  lips  parted.     His  eyes  searched  hers. 

"  But  how  ?  "  he  asked  presently. 

"  He  was  trying  it  at  a  fence,  and  it  came  down  with  him 
—and  trampled  him." 

There  was  a  pause.  At  last  the  boy  asked  rather  breath- 
lessly :  "  Was  he  killed  then,  mother,  at  once  ?  " 


io8  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

It  had  been  Katherine's  intention  to  state  the  facts  simply, 
gravely,  and  without  emotion.  But  to  speak  of  these  things^ 
after  so  long  silence,  proved  more  trying  than  she  had  antici- 
pated. The  scene  in  the  red  drawing-room,  the  long  agony  of 
waiting  and  of  farewell  rose  up  before  her  after  ail  these  years 
with  a  vividness  and  poignancy  that  refused  to  be  gain-said. 

"  No,"  she  answered,  "  he  lived  four  days.  He  spoke  to 
me  of  many  things  he  wished  to  do.     And — I  have  done  them 

all,  I  think.     He  spoke  to  me  of  you "     Katherine  closed 

her  eyes.  "  The  boy  might  care  for  the  stables.  The  boy 
must  ride  straight."  For  the  moment  she  could  not  look  at 
Richard,  knowing  that  which  she  must  see.  The  irony  of 
those  remembered  words  appeared  too  great. — "  But  he 
suffered,"  she  went  on  brokenly,  ''he  suffered  —  ah!  my^ 
dear " 

"  Mummy,  darling  mummy,  don't  look  like  that  !  "  Dickie 
cried.  He  wrenched  his  hands  from  her  grasp  and  threw  his 
arms  impulsively  about  her  neck.  "  Don't — it  hurts  me» 
And — and,  after  all,"  he  added,  reasoningly,  consolingly,  "  it 
wasn't  one  of  these  horses,  you  know.  They've  never  done 
anybody  any  harm.  It  was  an  accident.  There  must  always- 
be  accidents  sometimes,  mustn't  there  ?  And  then,  you  see,  it 
all  happened  long,  long  ago.  It  must  have,  for  I  don't  re- 
member anything  about  it.  It  must  have  happened  when  I 
was  a  baby." 

"  Alas,  no,"  Katherine  exclaimed,  wrung  by  the  pathos  of 
his  innocent  egoism ;  "  it  happened  even  before  then,  my 
dearest,  before  you  were  born." 

With  the  unconscious  arrogance  of  childhood,  Richard  had^ 
so  far,  taken  his  mother's  devotion  very  much  as  a  matter  of 
course.  He  had  never  doubted  that  he  was,  and  always  had 
been,  the  inevitable  centre  of  all  her  interests.  So  now,  her 
words  and  her  bearing,  bringing — in  as  far  as  he  grasped  them — - 
the  revelation  of  aspects  of  her  life  quite  independent  of  his 
all-important,  little  self,  staggered  him.  For  the  first  time 
poor  Dickie  realised  that  even  one's  own  mother,  be  she  never 
so  devoted,  is  not  her  child's  exclusive  and  wholly  private 
property,  but  has  a  separate  existence,  joys  and  sorrows  apart. 
Instinctively  he  took  his  arms  from  about  her  neck  and  backed 
away  into  the  angle  of  the  window-seat,  regarding  her  with 
serious  and  somewhat  startled  attention.     And,  doing  so,  he  for 


THE  BREAKING  OF  DREAMS  109 

the  first  time  realised  consciously  something  more,  namely, 
the  greatness  of  her  beauty. 

For  the  years  had  dealt  kindly  with  Katherine  Calmady. 
Not  the  great  sorrows  of  life,  or  its  great  sacrifices,  but  fretful- 
ness,  ignoble  worries,  sordid  cares,  are  that  which  draw  lines 
upon  a  woman's  face  and  harshen  her  features.  At  six  and 
thirty  Lady  Calmady's  skin  was  smooth  and  delicate,  her 
colour,  still  clear  and  softly  bright.  Her  hair,  though  some- 
what darker  than  of  old,  was  abundant.  Still  she  wore  it  rolled 
up  and  back  from  her  forehead,  shov/ing  the  perfect  oval  of  her 
face.  Her  eyes,  too,  were  darker;  and  the  expression  of 
them  had  become  profound — the  eyes  of  one  who  has  looked 
on  things  which  may  not  be  told  and  has  chosen  her  part. 
Her  bosom  had  become  a  little  fuller ;  but  the  long,  inward 
curve  of  her  figure  below  it  to  the  round  and  shapely  waist, 
and  the  poise  of  her  rather  small  hips,  was  lithe  and  free  as 
ever.  While  there  was  that  enchanting  freshness  about  her 
which  is  more  than  the  mere  freshness  of  youth  or  of  physical 
health — which  would  seem,  indeed,  to  be  the  peculiar  dowry 
of  those  women  who,  having  once  known  love  in  all  its  com- 
pleteness and  its  strength,  of  choice  live  ever  afterwards  in 
perfect  chastity  of  act  and  thought. 

And  a  perception  not  only  of  the  grace  of  her  person,  as  she 
sat  sideways  on  the  window-seat  in  her  close-fitting,  gray 
gown,  with  its  frilled  lace  collar  and  ruffles  at  the  wrists,  came 
to  Richard  now.  He  perceived  something  of  this  more  inti- 
mate and  subtle  charm  which  belonged  to  her.  He  was 
enthralled  by  the  clear  sweetness,  as  of  dewy  grass  newly 
turned  by  the  scythe,  which  always  clung  about  her,  and  by 
the  whispering  of  her  silken  garments  when  she  moved.  A 
sudden  reverence  for  her  came  upon  him,  as  though,  behind 
her  gracious  and  so  familiar  figure,  he  apprehended  that  which 
belonged  to  a  region  superior,  almost  divine.  And  then  he 
was  seized — it  is  too  often  the  fate  of  worshippers — with 
jealousy  of  that  past  of  hers  of  which  he  had  been,  until  now, 
ignorant.  And  yet  another  emotion  shook  him,  for,  in  thus 
realising  and  differentiating  her  personality,  he  had  grown 
vividly,  almost  painfully,  conscious  of  his  own. 

He  turned  away,  laying  his  cheek  against  the  stone  window- 
ledge,  while  the  drops  of  a  passing  scud  of  rain  beat  in  on  his 
hot  face. 


no  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

"Then — then  my  father  never  saw  me,"  he  exclaimed 
vehemently.  And,  after  a  moment's  pause,  added,  "  I  am 
glad  of  that — very  glad." 

"  Ah  !  But,  my  dearest,"  Lady  Calmady  cried,  bewildered 
and  aghast,  "you  don't  know  what  you  are  saying — think." 

Richard  kept  his  face  to  the  splashing  rain. 

"  I  don't  want  to  say  anything  wrong  ;  but,"  he  repeated, 
« I  am  glad." 

He  turned  to  her,  his  lips  quivering  a  little,  and  a  desolate 
expression  in  his  eyes,  which  told  Katherine,  with  only  too 
bitter  assurance,  that  his  childhood  and  the  repose  of  it  were 
indeed  over  and  gone. 

She  held  out  her  arms  to  him  in  silent  invitation,  and  drew 
the  dear  curly  head  on  to  her  bosom. 

"  You're  not  displeased  with  me,  mummy  ?  " 

"  Does  this  seem  as  if  I  was  displeased  ?  "  she  asked. 

Then  they  sat  silent  once  more,  Katherine  swaying  a  little 
as  she  held  him,  soothing  him  almost  as  in  his  baby  days. 

"I  won't  lean  out  of  the  window  again,"  he  said  presently, 
with  a  sigh  of  comfort.     "  I  promise  that." 

"  There's  a  darling.  But  I  am  afraid  we  must  go.  Uncle 
Roger  will  be  here  soon." 

The  boy  raised  his  head. 

"  Mother,"  he  said  quickly,  "  will  you  send  Clara,  please, 
to  put  away  these  books  ?  And  may  I  have  Winter  to  fetch 
me  ?  I — I'm  tired.  If  you  don't  mind  ?  I  don't  care  to 
walk." 

Yet,  since  happily  at  thirteen  Richard's  moods  were  still  as 
many  and  changeful  as  the  aspects  of  that  same  April  day,  he 
enjoyed  some  royally  unclouded  hours  before  he — most  un- 
willingly— retired  to  bed  that  night.  For  on  close  acquaint- 
ance the  great  Ulysses  proved  a  very  satisfactory  hero.  Roger 
Ormiston's  character  had  consolidated.  It  was  to  some  pur- 
pose that  he  had  put  away  the  pleasant  follies  of  his  youth. 
He  looked  out  now  with  a  coolness  and  patience,  born  of 
wide  experience,  upon  men  and  upon  affairs.^  He  had  ceased 
to  lose  either  his  temper  or  his  head.  Acquiescing  with  un- 
dismayed and  cheerful  common  sense  in  the  fact  that  life,  as 
we  know  it,  is  but  a  sorry  business,  and  that  rough  things 
must  of  necessity  be  done  and  suffered  every  day,  he  had  de- 
veloped an  active — though  far  from  morbidly  sentimental — 


THE  BREAKING  OF  DREAMS  iir 

compassion  for  the  ind 'victual,  man  and  beast  alike.  Not  that 
Colonel  Ormiston  fo>  a*  .v,=»ted  all  that,  still  less  held  forth  upon 
it.  He  was  content,  as  iS  so  many  another  Englishman,  to 
be  a  dumb  and  practical  philosopher — for  which  those  who 
have  lived  with  philosophers  of  the  eloquent  sort  will  unques- 
tionably give  thanks,  knowing,  to  their  sorrow,  how  often 
handsome  speech  is  but  a  cloak  to  hide  incapacity  of  honest 
doing. 

And  so,  after  dinner,  under  plea  of  an  imperative  need  of 
cigars,  Ormiston  had  borne  Dickie  off  to  the  Gun-Room  ; 
and  there,  in  the  intervals  of  questioning  him  a  little  about 
his  tastes  and  occupations,  had  told  him  stories  many  and 
great.  For  he  wanted  to  get  hold  of  the  boy  and  judge  of 
what  stuff  he  was  made.  Like  all  sound  and  healthy-minded 
men  he  had  an  inherent  suspicion  of  the  abnormal.  He  could 
not  but  fear  that  persons  unusually  constituted  in  body  must  be 
the  victims  of  some  corresponding  crookedness  of  spirit. 
But  as  the  evening  drew  on  he  became  easy  on  this  point. 
Whatever  Richard's  physical  infirmity,  his  nature  was  whole- 
some enough.  Therefore  when,  at  close  upon  ten  o'clock, 
f  Lady  Calmady  arrived  in  person  to  insist  that  Dickie  must  go, 
there  and  then,  straight  to  bed,  she  found  a  pleasant  scene 
awaiting  her. 

The  square  room  was  gay  with  lamplight  and  firelight, 
which  brought  into  strong  relief  the  pictures  of  famous  horses 
and  trophies  of  old-time  weapons — matchlocks,  basket-handled 
swords,  and  neat  silver-hiked  rapiers,  prettiest  of  toys  with 
which  to  pink  your  man — that  decorated  its  white-paneled 
walls. 

Ormiston  stood  with  his  back  to  the  fire,  one  heel  on  the 
fender,  his  broad  shoulders  resting  against  the  high  chimney- 
piece,  his  head  bent  forward  as  he  looked  down,  in  steady  yet 
kindly  scrutiny,  at  the  boy.  His  face  was  tanned  by  the  sun 
and  wind  of  the  long  sea  voyage — people  still  came  home 
from  India  by  the  Cape — till  his  hair  and  moustache  showed 
pale  against  his  bronzed  skin.  And  to  Richard,  listening  and 
I  watching  from  the  deep  armchair  drawn  up  at  right  angles  to 
[  the  hearth,  he  appeared  as  ^  veritable  demigod,  master  of  the 
secrets  of  life  and  death — beheld,  moreover,  through  an  at- 
mosphere of  fragrant  tobacco  smoke,  curiously  intoxicating  to 
unaccustomed  nostrils.     Dickie   had   tucked  himself  into  as 


112  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

small  a  space  as  possible,  to  make  room  for  young  Camp,  who 
lay  outstretched  beside  him.  The  bull-dog's  great  underhung 
jaw  and  pendulous,  wrinkled  cheeks  rested  on  the  arm  of  the 
chair,  as  he  stared  and  blinked  rather  sullenly  at  the  fire — 
moved  and  choked  a  little,  slipping  ofF  unwillingly  to  sleep, 
to  wake  with  a  start,  to  stare  and  blink  once  more.  The  em- 
broidered couvre-pieds^  which  Dickie  had  spread  across  him, 
gathering  the  top  edge  of  it  up  under  the  front  of  his  Eton 
jacket,  offered  luxurious  bedding.  But  Camp  was  a  typical 
conservative,  slow-witted,  stubborn  against  the  ingress  of  a 
new  idea.  This  tall,  somewhat  masterful  stranger  must  prove 
himself  a  good  man  and  true — according  to  bull-dog  under- 
standing of  those  terms — before  he  could  hope  to  gain  en- 
trance to  that  faithful,  though  narrow  heart. 

Ormiston  meanwhile,  finely  contemptuous  of  canine  criti- 
cism, greeted  his  sister  cheerily. 

"You're  bound  to  give  us  a  little  law  to-night,  Kitty,"  he 
said,  holding  out  his  hand  to  her.  "  We  won't  break  rules 
and  indulge  in  unbridled  license  as  to  late  hours  again,  will 
we,  Dick  ?  But,  you  see,  we've  both  been  doing  a  good  deal, 
one  way  and  another,  since  we  last  met,  and  there  were  arrears 
of  conversation  to  make  up." — He  smiled  very  charmingly  at 
Lady  Calmady,  and  his  fingers  closed  firmly  on  her  hand. — 
''  We've  been  getting  on  famously,  notwithstanding  our  long 
separation."  He  looked  down  at  Richard  again.  "Fast 
friends,  already,  and  mean  to  remain  so,  don't  we,  old  chap  ? " 

Thereupon  Lady  Calmady's  soul  received  much  comfort. 
Her  pride  was  always  on  the  alert,  fiercely  sensitive  concern- 
ing Richard.  And  the  joy  of  this  meeting  had,  till  now,  an 
edge  of  jealous  anxiety  to  it.  If  Roger  did  not  take  to  the 
boy,  then — deeply  though  she  loved  him — Roger  must  go. 
For  the  same  elements  were  constant  in  Katherine  Calmady. 
Not  all  the  discipline  of  thirteen  years  had  tamed  the  hot 
blood  in  her  which  made  her  order  out  the  Clown  for  execu- 
tion. But  as  Ormiston  spoke,  her  face  softened,  her  eyes 
grew  luminous  and  smiled  back  at  him  with  an  exquisite  glad- 
ness. The  soft  gloom  of  her  black  velvet  dress  emphasised 
the  warm,  golden  whiteness  of  her  bare  shoulders  and  arms. 
Ormiston  seeing  her  just  then,  understanding  something  of 
the  drama  of  her  thought,  was  moved  from  his  habitual  cooi 
indifference  of  bearing. 


THE  BREAKING  OF  DREAMS  113 

''  Katherine,"  he  said,  "  do  you  know  you  take  one  rather 
by  surprise.  Upon  my  word  you're  more  beautiful  than 
ever." 

And  Richard's  clear  voice  rang  out  eagerly  from  the  depths 
of  the  big  chair  — 

"  Yes — yes — isn't  she,  Uncle  Roger — isn't  she — delicious  ?  " 

The  man's  smile  broadened  almost  to  laughter. 

"  You  young  monkey,"  he  said  very  gently  ;  "  so  you  havv> 
discovered  that  fact  already,  have  you  ?  Well,  so  much  the 
better.  It's  a  safe  basis  to  start  from ;  don't  you  think  so, 
Kitty  P " 

But  Lady  Calmady  drew  away  her  hand.  The  blood  had 
rushed  into  her  face  and  neck.  Her  beauty,  now,  for  so  long, 
had  seemed  a  negligible  quantity,  a  thing  that  had  outlasted 
its  need  and  use — since  he  who  had  so  rejoiced  in  it  was  dead. 
What  is  the  value  of  ever  so  royal  a  crown  when  the  throne 
it  represents  has  fallen  to  ruin  ?  And  yet,  being  very  much  a 
woman,  those  words  of  praise  came  altogether  sweetly  to 
Katherine  from  the  lips  of  her  brother  and  her  son.  She 
moved  away,  embarrassed,  not  quite  mistress  of  herself,  sat 
down  on  the  arm  of  Richard's  chair,  leaned  across  him  and 
patted  the  bull-dog — who  raised  his  heavy  head  with  a  grunt, 
and  slapped  Dickie  smartly  in  the  stomach  with  his  tail,  by 
way.  of  welcome. 

"  You  dear  foolish  creatures,"  she  said,  "  pray  talk  of  some- 
thing more  profitable.  I  am  growing  old,  and,  in  some  ways, 
I  am  rather  thankful  for  it.  All  the  same,  Dickie,  darling, 
you  positively  must  and  shall  go  to  bed." 

But  Colonel  Ormiston  interrupted  her.  He  spoke  with  a 
trace  of  hesitation,  turning  to  the  fireplace  and  flicking  the 
ash  off  the  end  of  his  cigar. 

"  By  the  bye,  Katherine,  how's  Mary  Cathcart  ?  Have 
you  seen  her  lately  ?  " 

"  Yes,  last  week." 

"Then  she's  not  gone  the  way  of  all  flesh  and  married  ?" 

"  No,"  Lady  Calmady  answered.  She  bent  a  little  lower, 
tracing  out  the  lines  on  the  dog's  wrinkled  forehead  with  her 
finger.  "  Several  men  have  asked  her  to  marry.  But  there 
is  only  one  man  in  the  world,  I  fancy,  whom  Mary  would 
ever  care  to  marry — poor  Camp,  did  I  tickle  you  ? — and  he,  I 
believe,  has  not  asked  her  yet." 


114  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

''  Ah  !  there/'  Ormiston  exclaimed  quickly,  "  you  are  mis- 
taken." 

"Am  I?"  Katherine  said.  "I  have  great  faith  in  Mary. 
I  suppose  she  was  too  wise  to  accept  even  him,  being  not 
wholly  convinced  of  his  love." 

Lady  Calmady  raised  her  eyes.  Ormiston  looked  very 
keenly  at  her.  And  Richard,  watching  them,  felt  his  breath 
come  rather  short  with  excitement,  for  he  understood  that  his 
mother  was  speaking  in  riddles.  He  observed,  moreover,  that 
Colonel  Ormiston's  face  had  grown  pale  for  all  its  sunburn. 

"  And  so,"  Katherine  went  on,  "  I  think  the  man  in  ques- 
tion had  better  be  quite  sure  of  his  own  heart  before  he  offers 
it  to  Mary  Cathcart  again." 

Ormiston  flung  his  half-smoked  cigar  into  the  fire.  He 
came  and  stood  in  front  of  Richard. 

"  Look  here,  old  chap,"  he  said,  "  what  do  you  say  to  our 
driving  over  to  Newlands  to-morrow  ?  You  can  set  me  right 
if  I've  forgotten  any  of  the  turns  in  the  road,  you  know.  And 
you  and  Miss  Cathcart  are  great  chums,  aren't  you? " 

"  Mother,  may  I  go  ?  "  the  boy  asked. 

Lady  Calmady  kissed  his  forehead. 

"  Yes,  my  dearest,"  she  said.  "  I  will  trust  you  and  Uncle 
Roger  to  take  care  of  each  other  for  once.     You  may  go." 

The  immediate  consequence  of  all  which  was,  that  Richard 
went  to  bed  that  night  with  a  brain  rather  dangerously  active 
and  eyes  rather  dangerously  bright.  So  that  when  sleep  at  last 
visited  him,  it  came  burdened  with  dreams,  in  which  the  many 
impressions  and  emotions  of  the  day  took  altogether  too  lively 
a  part,  causing  him  to  turn  restlessly  to  and  fro,  and  throw  his 
arms  out  wide  over  the  cool  linen  sheets  and  pillow. 

For  there  was  new  element  in  Dickie's  dreams  to-night : — 
namely,  a  recurrent  distress  of  helplessness  and  incapacity  of 
movement,  and  therefore  of  escape,  in  the  presence  of  some 
on-coming  multitudinous  terror.  He  was  haunted,  moreover, 
by  a  certain  stanza  of  the  ballad  of  Chevy  Chase.  It  had 
given  him  a  peculiar  feeling,  sickening  yet  fascinating,  ever 
since  he  could  remember  first  to  have  read  it,  a  feeling  which 
caused  him  to  dread  reading  it  beforehand,  yet  made  him  turn 
back  to  it  again  and  again.  And  to-night,  sometimes  Richard 
was  himself,  sometimes  his  personality  seemed  merged  in 
that  of  Witherington,   the  crippled    fighting-man,  of  whose 


THE  BREAKING  OF  DREAMS  115 

maiming  and  deadly  courage  that  stanza  tells.  And  the  battle 
was  long  and  fierce,  as  from  out  a  background  of  steeple- 
shaped,  honey-combed  rocks  and  sparse  trees  with  large  golden 
leaves — like  those  on  the  panels  of  the  great,  lacquered  cabi- 
nets in  the  Long  Gallery — innumerable  hordes  of  fanatic 
Chinamen  poured  down  on  him,  a  hideous  bedizenment  of 
vermilion  war-devils  painted  on  their  blue  tunics  and  banners 
and  shields.  And  he,  Richard, — or  was  it  he,  Witherington  ? 
— alone  facing  them  all, — they  countless  in  number,  always 
changing  yet  always  the  same.  From  under  their  hard,  up- 
turned hats,  a  peacock  feather  erect  in  each,  the  cruel,  oblique- 
eyed,  impassive  faces  stared  at  him.  They  pressed  him  back 
and  back  against  the  base  of  a  seven-storied  pagoda,  the  wind 
bells  of  which  jangled  far  above  him  from  the  angles  of  its 
tiers  of  fluted  roofs.  And  the  sky  was  black  and  polished. 
Yet  it  was  broad,  glaring  daylight,  every  object  fearfully  dis- 
tinct. And  he  was  fixed  there,  unable  to  get  away  because — 
yes,  of  course,  he  was  Witherington,  so  there  was  no  need  of 
further  explanation  of  that  inability  of  escape. 

And  still,  at  the  same  time,  he  could  see  Chifney  on  the 
handsome  gray  cob,  trotting  soberly  along  the  green  ride,  be- 
side the  long  string  of  race-horses  coming  home  from  exercise. 
The  young  leaves  were  fragile  and  green  now,  not  sparse  and 
metallic,  and  the  April  rain  splashed  in  his  face.  He  tried  to 
call  out  to  Tom  Chifney,  but  the  words  died  in  his  throat.  If 
they  would  only  put  him  on  one  of  those  horses  !  He  knew 
he  could  ride,  and  so  be  safe  and  free.  He  called  again.  That 
time  his  voice  came.  They  must  hear.  Were  they  not  his 
own  servants,  after  all,  and  his  own  horses — or  would  be  soon, 
when  he  was  grown  up?  But  neither  the  trainer,  nor  the 
boys  so  much  as  turned  their  heads  ;  and  the  living  ribbon  of 
brown  and  chestnut  swept  on  and  away  out  of  sight.  No  one 
would  heed  him,  no  one  would  hearken  to  his  cry. 

Once  his  mother  and  some  man,  whom  he  knew  yet  did  not 
know,  passed  by  him  hand  in  hand.  She  wore  a  white  dress, 
and  smiled  with  a  look  of  ineffable  content.  Her  companion 
was  tall,  gracious  in  bearing  and  movement,  but  unsubstantial, 
a  luminous  shadow  merely.  Richard  could  not  see  his  face. 
Yet  he  knew  the  man  was  of  near  kin  to  him.  And  to  them 
he  tried  to  speak.  But  it  was  useless.  For  now  he  was  not 
Richard  any  more.     He  was  not  evei?  Witherington,  the  crip- 


ii6  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

pled  fighting-man  of  the  Chevy  Chase  ballad.  He  was — he 
was  the  winged  sea-gull,  with  wild,  pale  eyes,  hiding — abject 
yet  fierce — among  the  vegetable  beds  in  the  Brockhurst 
kitchen-gardens,  and  picking  up  loathsome  provender  of  snails 
and  slugs.  Roger  Ormiston,  calm,  able,  kindly,  yet  just  a 
trifle  insolent,  cigar  in  mouth,  sauntered  up  and  looked  at  the 
bird,  and  it  crawled  away  among  the  cabbages  ignominiously, 
covered  with  the  shame  of  its  incompleteness  and  its  fallen 
estate. 

And  then  from  out  the  honey-combed  rocks,  under  the 
black,  polished  sky,  the  blue  tunicked  Chinamen  swept  down 
on  Richard  again  with  the  maddening  horror  of  infinite  num- 
ber. They  crushed  in  upon  him,  nearer  and  nearer,  pressing 
him  back  against  the  wall  of  that  evil  pagoda.  The  air  was 
hot  and  musky  with  their  breath  and  thick  with  the  muffled 
roar  of  their  countless  footsteps.  And  they  came  right  in  on 
him,  trampling  him  down,  suffocating,  choking  him  with  the 
heat  of  them  and  the  dead  weight. 

Shouting  aloud — as  it  seemed  to  him — in  angry  terror,  the 
boy  woke.  He  sat  up  trembling,  wet  with  perspiration,  be- 
wildered by  the  struggle  and  the  wild  phantasmagoria  of  his 
dream.  He  pulled  open  the  neck  of  his  nightshirt,  leaned  hr, 
head  against  the  cool  brass  rail  of  the  back  of  the  bedstead, 
while  he  listened  with  growing  relief  to  the  rumble  of  the  wind 
in  the  chimney,  and  the  swish  of  the  rain  against  the  case- 
ments, and  watched  the  narrow  line  of  light  under  the  door  of 
his  mother's  room. 

Yes,  he  was  Richard  Calmady,  after  all,  here  in  his  own 
sheltered  world,  among  those  who  had  loved  and  served  him 
all  his  life.  Nothing  hurtful  could  reach  him  here,  nothing  of 
which  he  need  be  afraid.  There  was  no  real  meaning  in  that 
ugly  dream. 

And  then  Dickie  paused  a  moment,  still  sitting  up  in  the 
warm  darkness,  pressing  his  hands  down  on  the  mattress  on 
either  side  to  keep  himself  from  slipping.  For  involuntarily 
he  recalled  the  feeling  which  had  prompted  his  declaration  that 
he  was  glad  his  father  had  never  seen  him  ;  recalled  his  un- 
willingness to  walk,  lest  he  should  meet  Ormiston  unex- 
pectedly ;  recalled  the  instinct  which,  even  during  that  glori- 
ous time  in  the  Gun-Room,  had  impelled  him  to  keep  the 
embroidered  couvre-pieds  carefully  over  his  legs  and  feet.    And, 


THE  BREAKING  OF  DREAMS  117 

recalling  these  things,  poor  Dickie  arrived  at  conclusions 
regarding  himself  which  he  had  happily  avoided  arriving  at 
before.  For  they  were  harsh  conclusions,  causing  him  to 
cower  down  in  the  bed,  and  bury  his  face  in  the  pillows  to 
stifle  the  sound  of  the  tearing  sobs  which  would  come. 

Alas  !  was  there  not  only  too  real  a  meaning  in  that  same 
ugly  dream  and  that  shifting  of  personality  ?  He  understood, 
while  his  body  quivered  with  the  anguish  of  it,  that  he  had 
more  in  common  with,  and  was  nearer,  far  nearer,  to  the 
maimed  fighting-man  of  the  old  ballad,  even  to  the  poor  sea- 
gull robbed  of  its  power  of  flight,  than  to  all  those  dear  people 
whose  business  in  life  it  seemed  to  pet  and  amuse  him,  and  to 
minister  to  his  every  want — to  the  handsome  soldier  uncle, 
whose  home-coming  had  so  excited  him,  to  Julius  March,  his 
indulgent  tutor,  to  Mademoiselle  de  Mirancourt,  his  delightful 
companion,  to  Clara,  his  obedient  playfellow,  to  brown-eyed 
Mary  Cathcart,  and  even  to  his  lovely  mother  herself! 

Thus  did  the  bitter  winds  of  truth,  which  blow  forever 
across  the  world,  first  touch  Richard  Calmady,  cutting  his  poor 
boyish  pride  as  with  a  whip.  But  he  was  very  young.  And 
the  young,  mercifully,  know  no  such  word  as  the  inevitable ; 
so  that  the  wind  of  truth  is  ever  tempered  for  them — the  first 
smart  of  it  over — by  the  sunshine  of  ignorant  and  unlimited 
hope. 


CHAPTER  III 

CONCERNING     THAT    WHICH,    THANK    GOD,    HAPPENS    ALMOST 

EVERY    DAY 

'  f^HE  merry  spring  sky  was  clear,  save  in  the  south  where 
a  vast  perspective  of  dappled  cloud  lay  against  it,  leaving 
winding  rivers  of  blue  here  and  there,  as  does  ribbed  sand  for 
the  incoming  tide.  As  the  white  gate  of  the  inner  park — the 
gray  unpainted  palings  ranging  far  away  to  right  and  left — 
swung  to  behind  them,  and  Henry  the  groom,  after  a  smart 
run,  clambered  up  into  his  place  again  beside  Camp  on  the 
back  seat  of  the  double  dog-cart,  Richard's  spirits  rose. 
Straight  ahead  stretched  out  the  long  vista  of  that  peculiar 


ii8  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

glory  of  Brockhurst,  its  avenue  of  Scotch  firs.  The  trunks 
of  them,  rough-barked  and  purple  below,  red,  smooth  and 
glistering  above,  shot  up  some  thirty  odd  feet — straight  as  the 
pillars  of  an  ancient  temple — before  the  branches,  sweeping 
outward  and  downward,  met,  making  a  whispering,  living 
canopy  overhead,  through  which  the  sunshine  fell  in  tremulous 
shafts,  upon  the  shining  coats  and  gleaming  harness  of  the 
horses,  upon  Ormiston's  clear-cut,  bronzed  face  and  upright 
figure,  and  upon  the  even,  straw-coloured  gravel  of  the  road 
The  said  road  is  raised  by  about  three  feet  above  the  level  of 
the  land  on  either  side.  On  the  left,  the  self-sown  firs  grow 
in  close  ranks.  The  ground  below  them  is  bare  but  for  tus- 
socks of  coarse  grass  and  ruddy  beds  of  fallen  fir  needles.  On 
the  right,  the  fir  wood  is  broken  by  coppices  of  silver-stemmed 
birches,  and  spaces  of  heather — that  shows  a  purple-brown 
against  the  gray  of  the  reindeer  moss  out  of  which  it  springs. 
Tits  swung  and  frolicked  among  the  tree-tops,  and  a  jay  flew 
ofF  noisily  with  a  flash  of  azure  wing-coverts  and  volley  of 
harsh  discordant  cries. 

The  rapid  movement,  the  moist,  pungent  odour  of  the  wood- 
land, the  rhythmical  trot  of  the  horses,  the  rattle  of  the  splinter- 
bar  chains  as  the  traces  slackened  going  downhill,  above  all 
the  presence  of  the  man  beside  him,  were  pleasantly  stimula- 
ting to  Richard  Calmady.  The  boy  was  still  a  prey  to  much 
innocent  enthusiasm.  It  appeared  to  him,  watching  Ormis- 
ton's  handling  of  the  reins  and  whip,  there  was  nothing  this 
man  could  not  do,  and  do  skilfully,  yet  all  with  the  same  easy 
unconcern.  Indeed,  the  present  position  was  so  agreeable  to 
him  that  Dickie's  spirits  would  have  risen  to  an  unusual  height, 
but  for  a  certain  chastening  of  the  flesh  in  the  shape  of  the 
occasional  pressure  of  a  broad  strap  against  his  middle,  which 
brought  him  unwelcome  remembrance  of  recent  discoveries  it 
was  his  earnest  desire  to  ignore,  still  better  to  forget. 

For  just  at  starting  there  had  been  a  rather  bad  moment. 
Winter,  having  settled  him  on  the  seat  of  the  dog-cart,  was 
preparing  to  tuck  him  in  with  many  rugs,  when  Ormiston 
said  — 

"  Look  here,  dear  old  chap,  I've  been  thinking  about  this, 
and  upon  my  word  you  don't  seem  to  me  very  safe.  You  see 
this  is  a  diff^erent  matter  to  your  donkey-chair,  or  the  pony- 
tcarriage.     There's  no  protection  at  the  side,  and  if  the  horses 


THE  BREAKING  OF  DREAMS  119 

shied  or  anything — well,  you'd  be  in  the  road.  And  I  can't 
afford  to  spill  you  the  first  time  we  go  out  together,  or  there'd 
be  a  speedy  end  of  all  our  fun." 

Richard  tried  to  emulate  his  uncle's  cool  indifference,  and 
take  the  broad  strap  as  a  matter  of  course.  But  he  was  glad 
the  tongue  of  the  buckle  slipped  so  directly  into  place  ;  and 
that  Henry's  attention  was  engaged  with  the  near  horse,  which 
fretted  at  standing  ;  and  that  Leonard,  the  footman,  was  busy 
making  Camp  jump  up  at  the  back  ;  and  that  his  mother,  who 
had  been  watching  him  from  the  lowest  of  the  wide  steps, 
turned  away  and  went  up  to  the  flight  to  join  Julius  March 
standing  under  the  gray  arcade.  As  the  horses  sprang  forward, 
clattering  the  little  pebbles  of  the  drive  against  the  body  of  the 
carriage,  and  swung  away  round  the  angle  of  the  house, 
Katherine  came  swiftly  down  the  steps  again  smiling,  kissing 
her  hand  to  him.  Still,  the  strap  hurt — not  poor  Dickie's 
somewhat  ill-balanced  body,  to  which  in  truth  it  lent  an  agree- 
able sense  of  security,  but  his,  just  then,  all  too  sensitive  mind. 
So  that,  notwithstanding  a  fine  assumption  of  gaiety,  as  he 
kissed  his  hand  in  return,  he  found  the  dear  vision  of  his 
mother  somewhat  blurred  by  foolish  tears  which  he  had 
resolutely  to  wink  away. 

But  now  that  disquieting  incident  was  left  nearly  ten  min- 
utes behind.  The  last  park  gate  and  its  cluster  of  mellow- 
tinted  thatched  cottages  was  past.  Not  only  out-of-doors  and 
all  the  natural  exhilaration  of  it,  but  the  spectacle  of  the  world 
beyond  the  precincts  of  the  park — into  which  world  he,  in 
point  of  fact,  so  rarely  penetrated — wooed  him  to  interest  and 
enjoyment.  To  Dickie,  whose  life  through  his  mother's 
jealous  tenderness  and  his  own  physical  infirmity  had  been 
.:;o  singularly  circumscribed,  there  was  an  element,  slightly 
pathetic,  of  discovery  and  adventure  in  this  ordinary  afternoon 
drive. 

He  did  not  want  to  talk.  He  was  too  busy  simply  seeing, 
everything  food  for  those  young  eyes  and  brain  so  greedy  of 
incident  and  of  beauty.  He  sat  upright  and  stared  at  the  pass- 
ing show. — At  the  deep  lane,  its  banks  starred  with  primroses 
growing  in  the  hollows  of  the  gnarled  roots  of  oaks  and  ash 
trees.  At  Sandyfield  rectory,  deep-roofed,  bow-windowed, 
the  red  walls  and  tiles  of  it  half  smothered  in  ivy  and  coton- 
easter.     At  the  low,  squat-towered,  Georgian  church,  standing 


120  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

in  Its  acre  of  close-packed  graveyard,  which  is  shadowed  by 
yew  trees  and  by  the  clump  of  three  enormous  Scotch  firs  in 
the  rectory  garden  adjoining.  At  the  Church  Farm,  just  be- 
yond— a  square  white  house,  the  slated  roofs  of  it  running  up 
steeply  to  a  central  block  of  chimneys,  it  having,  in  conse- 
quence, somewhat  the  effect  of  a  monster  extinguisher.  At 
the  rows  of  pale,  wheat  stacks,  raised  on  granite  straddles ;  at 
the  prosperous  barns,  yards,  and  stables,  built  of  wood  on  brick 
foundations,  that  surround  it,  presenting  a  mass  of  rich,  solid 
colour  and  of  noisy,  crowded,  animal  life.  At  the  fields,  plough 
and  pasture,  marked  out  by  long  lines  of  hedgerow  trees, 
broken  by  coppices — these  dashed  with  tenderest  green — 
stretching  up  and  back  to  the  dark  purple-blue  range  of  the 
moorland.  At  scattered  cottages,  over  the  gates  of  whose 
gardens  gay  with  daffodils  and  polyanthus,  groups  of  little  girls 
and  babies,  in  flopping  sunbonnets  and  scanty  lilac  pinafores, 
stared  back  at  the  passing  carriage,  and  then  bobbed  the  accus- 
tomed curtsy.  In  the  said  groups  were  no  boys,  save  of 
infant  years.  The  boys  were  away  shepherding,  or  to  plough, 
or  bird-minding.  For  as  yet  education  was  free  indeed — in 
the  sense  that  you  were  free  to  take  it,  or  leave  it,  as  suited 
your  pocket  and  your  fancy. 

Richard  stared  too  at  the  pleasant,  furze-dotted  commons, 
spinning  away  to  right  and  left  as  the  horses  trotted  sharply 
onward — commons  whereon  meditative  donkeys  endured  rather 
than  enjoyed  existence,  after  the  manner  of  their  kind ;  and 
prodigiously  large  families  of  yellow-gray  goslings  streeled 
after  the  flocks  of  white  geese,  across  spaces  of  fresh  sprung 
grass  around  shallow  ponds,  in  which  the  blue  and  dapple  of 
the  sky  was  reflected.  He  stared  at  Sandy  field  village  too — a 
straight  street  of  detached  houses,  very  diverse  in  colour  and  in 
shape,  standing  back,  for  the  most  part,  amid  small  orchards 
and  gardens  that  slope  gently  up  from  the  brook,  which  last, 
backed,  here  by  a  row  of  fine  elms,  there  by  one  of  Lombardy 
poplars,  borders  the  road.  Three  or  four  shops,  modest  in 
size  as  they  are  ambitious  in  the  variety  of  objects  offered  for 
sale  in  them,  advance  their  windows  boldly.  So  does  the 
yellow-washed  inn,  the  Calmady  arms  displayed  upon  its 
swinging  sign-board.  A  miller's  tented  waggon,  all  powdery 
with  flour,  and  its  team  of  six  horses,  brave  with  brass  harness 
and  bells,  a  timber-qarriage,  and  a  couple  of  spring-carts,  were 


THE  BREAKING  OF  DREAMS  121: 

drawn  up  on  the  half-moon  of  gravel  before  the  porch  j  while^ 
from  out  the  open  door,  came  a  sound  of  voices  and  odour  of 
many  pipes  and  much  stale  beer. 

And  Richard  had  uninterrupted  leisure  to  bestow  on  all  this 
seeing,  for  his  companion.  Colonel  Ormiston,  was  preoccupied 
and  silent.  Once  or  twice  he  looked  down  at  the  boy  as 
though  suddenly  remembering  his  presence  and  inquired  if  he 
was  "  all  right."  But  it  was  not  until  they  had  crossed  the 
long,  white-railed  bridge,  at  the  end  of  Sandyfield  street — which 
spans  not  only  the  little  brown  river  overhung  by  black-stemmed 
alders,  but  a  bit  of  marsh,  reminiscent  of  the  ancient  ford^ 
lush  with  water  grasses,  beds  of  king-cups,  and  broad-leaved 
docks — not  until  then  did  Colonel  Ormiston  make  sustained 
effort  at  conversation.     Beyond  the  bridge  the  road  forks. 

"  Left  to  Newlands,  isn't  it  ?  "  he  asked  sharply. 

Then,  as  the  carriage  swept  round  the  turn,  he  woke  up 
from  his  long  reverie  ;  waking  Richard  up  also,  from  his  long 
dream  of  mere  seeing,  to  human  drama  but  dimly  apprehended 
close  there  at  his  side. 

"  Oh,  well,  well !  "  the  man  exclaimed,  throwing  back  his 
head  in  sharp  impatience,  as  a  horse  will  against  the  restraint  of 
the  bearing-rein.  He  raised  his  eyebrows,  while  his  lips  set  in 
a  smile  the  reverse  of  gay.  Then  he  looked  down  at  Richard 
again,  an  unwonted  softness  in  his  expression. 

"  Been  happy  ?  "  he  said.  "  Enjoyed  your  drive  ?  That's 
right.  You  understand  the  art  of  being  really  good  company,. 
Dick." 

"  What's  that  ?  " 

"  Allowing  other  people  to  be  just  as  bad  company  as  they 
like." 

"  I — I  don't  see  how  you  could  be  bad  company,"  Dickie 
said,  flushing  at  the  audacity  of  his  little  compliment. 

"  Don't  you,  dear  old  chap  ?  Well,  that's  very  nice  of  you. 
All  the  same,  I  find,  at  times,  I  can  be  precious  bad  company 
to  myself." 

"Oh  !  but  I  don't  see  how,"  the  boy  argued,  his  enthusiasm 
protesting  against  all  possibility  of  default  in  the  object  of  it. 
Richard  wanted  to  keep  his  hands  down, —  unconsciousness,  if 
only  assumed,  told  for  personal  dignity — but  in  the  agitation  of 
protest,  spite  of  himself,  he  laid  hold  of  the  top  edge  of  that 
same  chastening  strap.     "  It  must  be  so  awfully  jolly  to  be  like 


122  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

you — able  to  do  everything  and  go  everywhere.  There  must 
be  such  a  lot  to  think  about." 

The  softness  was  still  upon  Ormiston's  face.  "  Such  a 
lot  ?  "  he  said.  "  A  jolly  lot  too  much,  believe  me,  very  often, 
Dick." 

He  looked  away  up  the  copse-bordered  road,  over  the  ears 
of  the  trotting  horses. 

"You've  read  the  story  of  Blue  Beard  and  that  unpleasant 
locked-up  room  of  his,  where  the  poor  little  wives  hung  all  of 
a  row  ?  Well,  Pm  sorry  to  say,  Dick,  most  men  when  they 
come  to  my  age  have  a  room  of  that  sort.  It's  an  inhospitable 
place.  One  doesn't  invite  one's  friends  to  dine  and  smoke 
there.  At  least  no  gentleman  does.  I've  met  one  or  two 
persons  who  set  the  door  open  and  rather  gloried  in  inviting 
inspection — but  they  were  blackguards  and  cads.  They  don't 
count.  Still  each  of  us  is  obliged  to  go  in  there  sometimes 
himself.  I  tell  you  it's  anything  but  lively.  I've  been  in 
there  just  now." 

The  dappled  cloud  creeping  upward  from  the  southern  hori- 
zon veiled  the  sun,  the  light  of  which  grew  pale  and  thin. 
The  scent  of  the  larch  wood,  on  the  right,  hung  in  the  air. 
Richard's  eyes  were  wide  with  inquiry.  His  mind  suffered 
growing-pains,  as  young  minds  of  any  intellectual  and  poetic 
worth  needs  must.  The  possibility  of  moral  experience,  in- 
calculable in  extent  as  that  golden-gray  outspread  of  creeping, 
increasing  vapour  overhead,  presented  itself  to  him.  The 
vastness  of  life  touched  him  to  fear.  He  struggled  to  find  a 
limit,  clothing  his  effort  in  childish  realism  of  statement. 

"  But  in  that  locked-up  room.  Uncle  Roger,  you  can't  have 
dead  women — dead  wives." 

Ormiston  laughed  quietly. 

"You  hit  out  pretty  straight  from  the  shoulder,  master 
Dick,"  he  said.  "  Happily  I  can  reassure  you  on  one  point. 
All  manner  of  things  are  hung  up  in  there — some  ugly — al- 
most all  ugly,  now,  to  my  eyes,  though  some  of  them  had 
charming  ways  with  them  once  upon  a  time.  But,  I  give  you 
my  word,  neither  ugly  nor  charming,  dead  nor  alive,  are  there 
any  wives." 

The  boy  considered  a  moment,  then  said  stoutly,  "  I 
v/ouldn't  go  in  there  again.  I'd  lock  the  door  and  throw  away 
the  key." 


THE  BREAKING  OF  DREAMS  123: 

"  Walt  till  your  time  comes  !  You'll  find  that  is  precisely 
what  you  can't  do." 

"  Then  I'd  fetch  them  out,  once  and  for  all,  and  bury  them." 

The  carriage  had  turned  in  at  the  lodge  gate.  Soon  a  long, 
lov/,  white  house  and  range  of  domed  conservatories  came  into 
view. 

"  Heroic  remedies  !  "  Ormiston  remarked,  amused  at  the 
boy's  vehemence.  "  But  no  doubt  they  do  succeed  now  and 
then.  To  tell  you  the  truth,  Dick,  I  have  been  thinking  of 
something  of  the  kind  myself.  Only  I'm  afraid  I  shall  need 
somebody  to  help  me  in  carrying  out  so  extensive  a  funeral." 

"Anybody  would  be  glad  enough  to  help  you,"  Richard 
declared,  with  a  strong  emphasis  on  the  pronoun. 

"  Ah  !  but  the  bother  is  anybody  can't  help  one.  Only  one 
person  in  all  this  great  rough  and  tumble  of  a  world  can  really 
help  one.  And  often  one  finds  out  who  that  person  is  a  little^ 
bit  too  late.  However,  here  we  are.  Perhaps  we  shall  know 
more  about  It  all  in  the  next  half  hour,  if  these  good  people 
are  at  home." 

In  point  of  fact  the  good  people  in  question  were  not  at 
home.  Ormiston,  holding  reins  and  whip  in  one  hand,  felt 
for  his  card-case. 

"So  we've  had  our  journey  for  nothing  you  see,  Dick,"  he 
said. 

And   to  Richard   the  words  sounded  regretful.     Moreover,, 
the    drama    of  this    expedition    seemed    to    him  shorn   of  its 
climax.     He    knew    there    should    be    something    more,   and 
pushed  for  it. 

"You  haven't  asked  for  Mary,"  he  said.  "And  I  thought 
we  came  on  purpose  to  see  Mary.  She  won't  like  us  to  go 
away  like  this.     Do  ask." 

Colonel  Ormiston's  expression  altered,  hardened.  And 
Richard,  in  his  present  hypersensitive  state,  remembered  the 
cool  scrutiny  bestowed  on  the  winged  sea-gull  of  his  dream  last 
night.  This  man  had  seemed  so  near  him  just  now,  while 
they  talked.  Suddenly  he  became  remote  again,  all  under- 
standing of  him  shut  away  by  that  slight  insolence  of  bearing. 
Still  he  did  as  Richard  prayed  him.  Miss.  Cathcart  was  at 
home.     She  had  just  come  in  from  riding. 

"  Tell  her  Sir  Richard  Calmady  is  here,,  aad  would  like,  if: 
he  may,  to  see  her." 


ra4  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

Without  waiting  for  a  reply,  Ormiston  unbuckled  that  same 
chastening  strap  silently,  quickly.  He  got  down  and,  coming 
round  to  the  farther  side  of  the  carriage,  lifted  Richard  out ; 
while  Camp,  who  had  jumped  off  the  back  seat,  stood  yawn- 
ing, whining  a  little,  shaking  his  heavy  head  and  wagging  his 
tail  in  welcome  on  the  door-step.  With  the  bull-dog  close  at 
his  heels,  Ormiston  carried  the  boy  into  the  house. 

The  inner  doors  were  open,  and,  up  the  long,  narrow, 
pleasantly  fresh-tinted  drawing-room,  Mary  Cathcart  came  to 
meet  them.  The  folds  of  her  habit  were  gathered  up  in  one 
hand.  In  the  other  she  carried  a  bunch  of  long-stalked, 
yellow  and  scarlet  tulips.  Her  strong,  supple  figure  stood  out 
against  the  young  green  of  the  lawns  and  shrubberies,  seen 
through  the  French  windows  behind  her.  She  walked  care- 
fully, with  a  certain  deliberation,  thanks  to  her  narrow  habit 
and  top-boots.  The  young  lady  carried  her  thirty-one  years 
bravely.  Her  irregular  features  and  large  m.outh  had  always 
hcen  open  to  criticism.  But  her  teeth,  when  her  lips 
parted,  were  white  and  even,  and  her  brown  eyes  frankly  hon- 
est as  ever. 

"  Why,  Dickie  dear,  it  is  simply  glorious  to  have  you  and 
Camp  paying  visits  on  your  own  account." — Her  speech  broke 
into  a  little  cry,  while  her  fingers  closed  so  tightly  on  the 
tulips  that  the  brittle  stalks  snapped,  and  the  gay-coloured 
bells  of  them  hung  limply,  some  falling  on  to  the  carpet  about 
her  feet.  "  Roger — Colonel  Ormiston — I  didn't  know  you 
were  home — were  here !  "  Her  voice  was  uncontrollably 
glad. 

Still  carrying  the  boy,  Ormiston  stood  before  her,  observing 
her  keenly.  But  he  was  no  longer  remote.  His  insolence, 
which,  after  all,  may  have  been  chiefly  self-protective,  had 
vanished. 

"  I'm  very  sorry — I  mean  for  those  poor  tulips.  I  came  to 
pay   my  respects   to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Cathcart,  and  not  finding 

them  was  preparing  to  drive  humbly  home  again      But " 

Certainly  she  carried  her  years  well.  She  looked  absurdly 
young.  The  brown  and  rose-red  of  her  complexion  was 
clear  as  that  of  the  little  maiden  who  had  fought  with,  and 
overcome,  and  kissed  the  rough  Welsh  pony  refusing  the 
grip  by  the  roadside  long  ago.  The  hint  of  a  moustache  em- 
phasised the  upturned  corners   of  her  mouth — but  that  was 


THE  BREAKING  OF  DREAMS  125 

rather  captivating.  Her  eyes  danced,  under  eyelids  which 
fluttered  for  the  moment.  She  was  not  beautiful,  not  a  woman 
to  make  men  run  mad.  Yet  the  comeliness  of  her  body,  and 
the  spirit  to  which  that  body  served  as  index,  was  so  unmis- 
takably healthful,  so  sincere,  that  surely  no  sane  man,  once 
gathering  her  into  his  arms,  need  ask  a  better  blessing. — 
"  But,"  Ormiston  went  on,  still  watching  her,  "  nothing  would 
satisfy  Dick  but  he  must  see  you.  With  many  injunctions 
regarding  his  safety,  Katherine  made  him  over  to  me  for  the 
afternoon.  I'm  on  duty,  you  see.  Where  he  goes,  I'm  bound 
to  go  also — even  to  the  destruction  of  your  poor  tulips." 

Miss  Cathcart  made  no  direct  answer. 

"  Sit  here,  Dickie,"  she  said,  pointing  to  a  sofa. 

"  But  you  don't  really  mind  our  coming  in,  do  you  ?  "  he 
asked,  rather  anxiously. 

The  young  lady  placed  herself  beside  him,  drew^  his  hand 
on  to  her  knee,  patted  it  gently. 

"  Mind  ?  No  ;  on  the  whole,  I  don't  think  I  do  mind  very- 
much.  In  fact,  I  think  I  should  probably  have  minded  very 
much  more  if  you  had  gone  away  without  asking  for  me." 

"  There,  I  told  you  so.  Uncle  Roger,"  the  boy  said  tri- 
umphantly. Camp  had  jumped  up  on  to  the  sofa  too.  He 
put  his  arm  comfortably  around  the  dog's  neck.  It  was  as. 
well  to  acquire  support  on  both  sides,  for  the  surface  of  the 
glazed  chintz  was  slippery,  inconveniently  unsustaining  to  his. 
equilibrium.  "  It's  an  awfully  long  time  since  I've  seerk 
Mary,"  he  continued,  "  more  than  three  weeks." 

"  Yes,  an  awfully  long  time,"  Ormiston  echoed,  "  more 
than  six  years." 

"  Dear  Dickie,"  she  said ;  "  how  pretty  of  you  !  Do  you 
always  keep  count  of  my  visits  ?  " 

"  Of  course  I  do.  They  were  about  the  best  things  that 
ever  happened,  till  Uncle  Roger  came  home." 

Forgetting  herself,  Mary  Cathcart  raised  her  eyes  to  Ormis- 
ton's  in  appeal.  The  boy's  little  declaration  stirred  all  the 
latent  motherhood  in  her.  His  fortunes  at  once  passed  so  very- 
far  beyond,  and  fell  so  far  short  of,  the  ordinary  lot.  She 
wondered  whether,  and  could  not  but  trust  that,  this  old 
friend  and  newcomer  was  not  too  self-centred,  too  hardened 
by  ability  and  success  to  appreciate  the  intimate  pathos  of  the 
position.     Ormiston  read  and  answered  her  thought. 


126  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

"  Oh  !  we  are  going  to  do  something  to  change  all  that,"  he 
said  confidently.  *'  We  are  going  to  enlarge  our  borders  a  bit; 
aren't  we,  Dick  ?  Only,  I  think,  we  should  manage  matters 
much  better  if  Miss  Cathcart  would  help  us,  don't  you  ?  " 

Richard  remembering  the  locked-up  room  of  evil  contents 
and  that  proposal  of  inclusive  funeral  rites,  gave  this  utterance 
a  wholly  individual  application.  His  face  grew  bright  with 
intelligence.  But,  greatly  restraining  himself,  he  refrained 
from  speech.  All  that  had  been  revealed  to  him  in  confidence, 
and  so  his  honour  was  engaged  to  silence. 

Ormiston  pulled  forward  a  chair  and  sat  down  by  him,  lean- 
ing forward,  his  hands  clasped  about  one  knee,  while  he  gazed 
at  the  tulips  scattered  on  the  floor. 

"  So  tell  Miss  Cathcart  we  all  want  her  to  come  over  to 
Brockhurst  just  as  often  as  she  can,"  he  continued,  "  and  help 
us  to  make  the  wheels  go  round  a  little  faster.  Tell  her  we've 
grown  very  old,  and  discreet,  and  respectable,  and  that  we  are 
absolutely  incapable  of  doing  or  saying  anything  foolish  ot 
naughty,  which  she  would  object  to — and " 

But  Richard  could  restrain  himself  no  longer.  "Why 
don't  you  tell  her  yourself.  Uncle  Roger  ?  " 

"  Because,  my  dear  old  chap,  a  burnt  child  fears  the  fire. 
I  tried  to  tell  Miss  Cathcart  something  once,  long  ago.  She 
mayn't  remember " 

"  She  does  remember,"  Mary  said  quietly,  looking  down  at 
Richard's  hand  and  patting  it  as  it  lay  on  her  lap. 

"  But  she  stopped  me  dead,"  Ormiston  went  on.  "  It  v/as 
quite  right  of  her.  She  gave  the  most  admirable  reasons  for 
stopping  me.     Would  you  care  to  hear  them  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  don't,  pray  don't,"  Mary  murmured.  "  It  is  not 
generous." 

"  Pardon  me,  your  reasons  were  absolutely  just — true  in 
substance  and  in  fact.  You  said  I  was  a  selfish,  good-for- 
nothing  spendthrift,  and  so " 

"  I  was  odious,"  she  broke  in.  "  I  was  a  self-righteous 
little  Pharisee — forgive  me " 

"Why — there's  nothing  to  forgive.     You  spoke  the  truth." 

"  I  don't  believe  it,"  Richard  cried,  in  vehement  protest. 

"  Dickie,  you're  a  darling,"  Mary  Cathcart  said. 

Colonel  Ormiston  left  off  nursing  his  knee,  and  leaned  a 
iittle  further  forward. 


THE  BREAKING  OF  DREAMS  127 


ii 


Well  then,  will  you  come  over  to  Brockhurst  very  often,, 
and  help  us  to  make  the  wheels  go  round,  and  cheer  us  all  up,. 
and  do  us  no  end  of  good,  though — I  am  a  selfish,  good-for- 
nothing  spendthrift  ?  You  see  I  run  through  the  list  of  my 
titles  again  to  make  sure  this  transaction  is  fair  and  square  and 
above-board." 

A  silence  followed,  which  appeared  to  Richard  protracted 
to  the  point  of  agitation.  He  became  almost  distressingly 
conscious  of  the  man's  still,  bronzed,  resolute  face  on  the  one 
hand,  of  the  woman's  mobile,  vivid,  yet  equally  resolute  face 
on  the  other,  divining  far  more  to  be  at  stake  than  he  had 
clear  knowledge  of.  Tired  and  excited,  his  impatience 
touched  on  anger. 

"  Say  yes,  Mary,"  he  cried  impulsively,  '^  say  yes.  I  don't 
see  how  anybody  can  want  to  refuse  Uncle  Roger  any- 
thing." 

Miss  Cathcart's  eyes  grew  moist.  She  turned  and  kissed 
the  boy. 

"  I  don't  think — perhaps — Dickie,  that  I  quite  see  either," 
she  answered  very  gently. 

"  Mary,  you  know  what  you've  just  said  ?  "  Ormiston's 
tone  was  stern.  "  You  understand  this  little  comedy  ?  It 
means  business.  This  time  you've  got  to  go  the  whole  hog 
or  none." 

She  looked  straight  at  him,  and  drew  her  breath  in  a  long 
haif-laughing  sigh. 

"  Oh,  dear  me  !  what  a  plague  of  a  hurry  you  are  in  !  " 
she  said.  "  Well — then — then — I  suppose  I  must — it  is 
hardly  a  graceful  expression,  but  it  is  of  your  choosing,  not 
of  mine — I  suppose  I  must  go  the  whole  hog." 

Roger  Ormiston  rose,  treading  the  fallen  tulips  under  foot. 
And  Richard,  watching  him,  beheld  that  which  called  to  his 
remembrance,  not  the  hopeless  and  impotent  battle  under  the 
black  polished  sky  of  his  last  night's  dream,  but  the  gallant 
stories  he  had  heard,  earlier  last  night,  of  the  battles  of 
Sobraon  and  Chillianwallah,  of  the  swift  dangers  of  sport,  and 
large  daring  of  travel.  Here  he  beheld — so  it  seemed  to  his 
boyish  thought — the  aspect  of  a  born  conqueror,  of  the  man 
who  can  serve  and  wait  long  for  the  good  he  desires,  and  who 
winning  it,  lays  hold  of  it  with  fearless  might.  And  this, 
while    causing    Richard    an    exquisite    delight    of  admiration. 


128  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

caused  him  also  a  longing  to  share  those  splendid  powers  so 
passionate  that  it  amounted  to  actual  pain. 

Mary  Cathcart's  hand  slid  from  under  his  hand.  She  too 
rose  to  her  feet. 

^^  Then  you  have  actually  cared  for  me  all  along,  all  these 
years,"  Ormiston  declared  in  fierce  joy. 

"  Of  course — who  else  could  I  care  for  ?  And — and — 
you've  loved  me,  Roger,  all  the  while  ?  " 

And  Ormiston  answered  "  Yes," — speaking  the  truth, 
though  with  a  difference.  There  had  been  interludes  that  had 
contributed  somewhat  freely  to  the  peopling  of  that  same 
locked-up  room.  But  it  is  possible  for  a  man  to  love  many 
times,  yet  always  love  one  woman  best. 

Ail  this,  however,  Dickie  did  not  know.  He  only  knew 
they  dazzled  him — the  man  triumphantly  strong,  the  woman 
so  bravely  glad.  He  could  not  watch  them  any  longer.  He 
went  hot  all  over,  and  his  heart  beat.  He  felt  strangely  deso- 
late too.  They  were  far  away  from  him  in  thought,  in  fact, 
though  so  close  by.  Dickie  shut  his  eyes,  put  his  arms  round 
the  bull-dog,  pressed  his  face  hard  against  the  faithful  beast's 
shoulder ;  while  Camp,  stretching  his  short  neck  to  the  utter- 
most, nuzzled  against  him  and  essayed  to  lick  his  cheek. 

Thus  did  Richard  Calmady  gain  yet  further  knowledge  of 
things  as  they  are. 


CHAPTER  IV 

WHICH    SMELLS    VERY    VILELY    OF    THE    STABLE 

A  PRIL  softened  into  May,  and  the  hawthorns  were  in 
blossom  before  Richard  passed  any  other  very  note- 
ivorthy  milestone  on  the  road  of  personal  development. 
Then,  greatly  tempted,  he  committed  a  venial  sin ;  received 
;prompt  and  coarse  chastisement ;  and,  by  means  of  the  said 
chastisement,  as  is  the  merciful  way  of  the  Eternal  Justice, 
found  unhoped  of  emancipation. 

It  happened  thus.  As  the  spring  days  grew  warm  Made- 
moiselle de  Mirancourt  failed  somewhat.  The  darkness  and 
penetrating  chill  of  the  English  winter  tried  her,  and  this  year 


lliE  BREAKING  OF  DRPIAMS  129 

her  recuperative  powers  seemed  sadly  deficient.  A  fuller  tide 
of  life  had  pulsed  through  Brockhurst  since  Colonel  Ornfiis- 
ton's  arrival.  The  old  stillness  was  departing,  the  old  order 
changing.  With  that  change  Mademoiselle  de  Mirancourt 
had  no  quarrel,  since,  to  her  serene  faith,  all  that  came  must, 
of  necessity,  come  through  a  divine  ordering  and  in  conform* 
ity  to  a  divine  plan.  Yet  this  more  of  activity  and  of  move- 
ment strained  her.  The  weekly  drive  over  to  Westchurch,  to 
hear  mass  at  the  humble  Catholic  chapel  tucked  away  in  a  side 
street,  sorely  taxed  her  strength.  She  returned  fortified,  her 
soul  ravished  by  that  heavenly  love,  which,  in  pure  and  inno- 
cent natures,  bears  such  gracious  kinship  to  earthly  love.  Yet 
in  body  she  was  outworn  and  weary.  On  such  occasions 
she  would  rally  Julius  March,  not  without  a  touch  of  malice, 
saying : — 

"  Ah !  trh  cher  ami^  had  you  only  followed  the  ever  blessed 
footsteps  of  those  dear  Oxford  friends  of  yours  and  entered 
the  fold  of  the  true  Church,  what  fatigue  might  you  not  now 
spare  me — let  alone  the  incalculable  advantages  to  your  own 
poor,  charming,  fatally  darkened  soul !  " 

While  Julius — who,  though  no  less  devout  than  of  yore, 
was  happily  less  fastidiously  sensitive — would  reply : — 

"  But,  dearest  lady,  had  I  followed  the  footsteps  of  my 
Oxford  friends,  remember  I  should  not  be  at  Brockhurst  at  all." 

"  Clearly,  then,  everything  is  well  ordered,"  she  would  say, 
folding  her  fragile  hands  upon  her  embroidery  frame,  "  since 
it  Is  altogether  impossible  we  could  do  without  you.  Yet  I 
regret  for  your  soul.  It  is  so  capable  of  receiving  illumina- 
tion. You  English — even  the  most  finished  among  you — re- 
main really  deplorably  stubborn,  and  nevertheless  it  is  my  fate 
perpetually  to  set  my  affections  upon  one  or  other  of  you." 

It  followed  that  Katherine  devoted  much  of  her  time  to 
Mademoiselle  de  Mirancourt,  walked  slowly  beside  her  up  and 
down  the  sunny,  garden  paths  sheltered  by  the  high,  red  walls 
whereon  the  clematis  and  jasmine  began  to  show  for  flower ; 
or  took  her  for  quiet,  little  drives  within  the  precincts  of  the 
park.  They  spoke  much  of  Lucia  St.  Quentin,  of  Katherine's 
girlhood,  and  of  those  pleasant  days  In  Paris  long  ago.  And 
this  brought  soothing  and  comfort,  not  only  to  the  old  lady, 
but  to  the  young  lady  also — and  of  soothing  and  comfort  the 
latter  stood  in  need  just  now. 


130  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

For  it  is  harsh  discipline  even  to  a  noble  woman,  whose  life 
is  still  strong  in  her,  to  stand  by  an^  see  another  woman  but  a 
tew  years  her  junior  entering  on  those  joys  which  she  has  lost, 
— marriage,  probably  motherhood  as  well.  Roger  Ormiston's 
and  Mary  Cathcart's  love-making  was  restrained  and  dignified. 
But  the  very  calm  of  their  attitude  implied  a  security  of  happi- 
ness passing  all  need  of  advertisement.  And  Katherine  was 
very  far  from  grudging  them  this.  She  was  not  envious,  still 
less  jealous.  She  did  not  want  to  take  anything  of  theirs  ;  but 
she  wanted,  she  sorely  wanted,  her  own  again.  A  word,  a 
look,  a  certain  quickness  of  quiet  laughter,  would  pierce  her 
with  recollection.  Once  for  her  too,  below  the  commonplaces 
of  daily  detail,  flowed  that  same  magic  river  of  delight.  But 
the  springs  of  it  had  gone  dry.  Therefore  it  was  a  relief 
to  be  alone  with  Mademoiselle  de  Mirancourt — virgin  and  saint 
— and  to  speak  with  her  of  the  days  before  she  had  sounded  the 
lovely  depths  of  that  same  magic  flood — days  when  she  had 
known  of  its  existence  only  by  the  mirage,  born  of  the  dazzle 
of  its  waters,  which  plays  over  the  innocent  vacant  spaces  of  a 
young  girl's  mind. 

It  was  a  relief  even,  though  of  sterner  quality,  to  go  mto  the 
red  drawing-room  on  the  ground  floor  and  pace  there,  her  hands 
clasped  behind  her,  her  proud  head  bowed,  by  the  half  hour 
together.  If  personal  joy  is  dead  past  resurrection,  there  is 
bitter  satisfaction  in  realising  to  the  full  personal  pain.  The 
room  was  duly  swept,  dusted,  casements  set  open  to  welcome 
breeze  and  sunshine,  fires  lighted  in  the  grate.  But  no  one 
ever  sat  there.  It  knew  no  cheerfulness  of  social  intercourse. 
The  crimson  curtains  and  covers  had  become  faded.  They 
were  not  renewed.  The  furniture,  save  for  the  absence  of  the 
narrow  bed,  stood  in  precisely  the  same  order  as  on  the  night 
when  Sir  Richard  Calmady  died.  It  was  pushed  back  against 
the  walls.  And  in  the  wide  empty  way  between  the  two  doors, 
Katherine  paced,  saturating  all  her  being  with  thoughts  of  that 
which  was,  and  must  remain,  wholly  and  inalienably  her  own — 
namely,  her  immense  distress. 

And  in  this  she  took  the  more  comfort,  because  something 
else,  until  now  appearing  wholly  her  own,  was  slipping  a  little 
away  from  her.  Dickie's  health  had  improved  notably  in  the 
last  few  weeks.  His  listlessness  had  vanished,  while  his  cheeks 
showed  a  wholesome  warmth  of  colour.     But  his  cry  was  ever, 


THE  BREAKING  OF  DREAMS  131 

**  Mother,  Uncle  Roger's  going  to  such  a  place.  He  says 
he'll  take  me.  I  can  go,  can't  I?"  Or,  "Mother,  Mary's 
going  to  do  such  a  thing.  She  says  she'll  show  me  how.  She 
may,  mayn't  she  ? "  And  Katherinc's  answer  was  always 
^^  Yes."  She  grudged  the  boy  none  of  his  new-found 
pleasures,  rejoiced  indeed  to  see  him  interested  and  gay.  Yet 
to  watch  the  new  broom,  which  sweeps  so  clean,  is  rarely 
exhilarating  to  those  that  have  swept  diligently  with  the  old 
one.  The  nest  had  held  her  precious  fiedgling  so  safely  till 
now  ;  and  this  fluttering  of  wings,  eager  for  flight,  troubled  her 
somewhat.  Not  only  was  Dickie's  readiness  to  be  away  from 
her  a  trifle  hard  to  bear  ;  but  she  knew  that  disappointment,  of 
a  certainty,  lay  in  wait  for  him,  and  that  e^.ch  effort  towards 
wider  action  would  but  reveal  to  him  how  circumscribed  his 
powers  actually  were. 

Meanwhile,  however,  Richard  enjoyed  himself  recklessly, 
almost  feverishly,  in  the  attempt  to  disprove  the  teaching  of 
that  ugly  dream,  and  keep  truth  at  bay.  There  had  been 
further  drives,  and  the  excitement  of  witnessing  a  forest  fire— - 
only  too  frequent  in  the  Brockhurst  country  when  the  sap  is 
up,  and  the  easterly  wind  and  May  sun  have  scorched  all 
moisture  from  the  surface  of  the  moorland.  He  and  Mary  had 
bumped  over  fir  roots  and  scuttled  down  bridle-paths  in  the 
pony-carriage,  to  avoid  the  rush  of  flame  and  smoke  ;  had 
skirmished  round  at  a  hand  gallop,  in  search  of  recruits  to 
reinforce  Ormiston,  and  lies,  and  a  small  army  of  beaters, 
battling  against  the  blazing  line  that  threatened  destruction  to 
the  fir  avenue.  Now  and  again,  with  a  mighty  roar,  which 
sent  Dickie's  heart  into  his  mouth,  great  tongues  of  flame, 
clear  as  topaz  and  ruby  in  the  steady  sunshine,  would  leap 
upwards,  converting  a  whole  tall  fir  into  a  tree  of  fire,  while 
the  beaters  runnmg  back,  grimed  with  smoke  and  sweat,  took 
a  moment's  breathing-space  in  the  open. 

There  had  been  more  peaceful  pastimes  as  well — several  days' 
fishing,  enchanting  beyond  the  power  of  language  to  describe. 
The  clear  trout-stream  meandering  through  the  rich  water- 
meadows  *,  the  herds  of  cattle  standing  knee-deep  in  the  grass, 
Ir.zily  chewing  the  cud  and  switching  their  tails  at  the  cloud  of 
flrcs  ;  the  birds  and  wild  creatures  haunting  the  streamside  ;  the 
long  dreamy  hours  of  gentle  sport,  had  opened  up  to  Dickie  a 
whole  new  world  of  romance.     His  donkey-chair  had  been  left 


132  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

at  the  yellow-washed  mill  beneath  the  grove  of  silvery-leaved, 
ever-rustling,  balsam  poplars.  And  thence,  while  Ormiston 
and  Mary  sauntered  slowly  on  ahead,  the  men — Winter  in 
mufti,  oblivious  of  plate-cleaning  and  cellarage,  and  the  onerous 
duties  of  his  high  estate.  Stamp,  the  water-bailiff,  and  Moor- 
cock, one  of  the  under-keepers — had  carried  him  across  the 
great  green  levels.  Winter  was  an  old  and  tried  friend,  and  it 
was  somewhat  diverting  to  behold  him  in  this  novel  aspect, 
affable  and  chatty  with  inferiors,  displaying,  moreover, 
unexpected  knowledge  in  the  mysteries  of  the  angler's  craft. 
The  other  two  men — sharp-featured,  their  faces  ruddy  as 
summer  apples,  merry-eyed,  clad  in  velveteen  coats,  that  bulged 
about  the  pockets,  and  wrinkled  leather  gaiters  reaching  half- 
way up  the  thigh — charmed  Richard,  when  his  first  shyness 
was  passed.  They  were  eager  to  please  him.  Their  talk  was 
racy.  Their  laughter  ready  and  sincere.  Did  not  Stamp  point 
out  to  him  a  water-ouzel,  with  impudently  jerking  tail,  dipping 
and  wading  in  the  shallows  of  the  stream  ?  Did  not  Moor- 
cock find  him  a  water-raiPs  nest,  hidden  in  a  tuft  of  reeds  and 
grass,  with  ten,  yellowish,  speckled  eggs  in  it  ?  And  did  not 
both  men  pluck  him  handfuls  of  cowslips,  of  tawny-pink  avens, 
and  of  mottled,  snake-headed  fritillaries,  and  stow  them  away 
in  the  fishing-baskets  above  the  load  of  silver-and-red  spotted 
trout  ? 

Mary  had  protested  Dickie  could  throw  a  fly,  if  he  had  a 
light  enough  rod.  And  not  only  did  he  throw  a  fly,  but  at  the 
fourth  or  fifth  cast  a  fish  rose,  and  he  played  it — with  skirling 
reel  and  much  advice  and  most  complimentary  excitement  on 
the  part  of  the  whole  good  company — and  brought  it  skilfully 
within  range  of  Stamp's  landing-net.  Never  surely  was  trout 
spawned  that  begot  such  bliss  in  the  heart  of  an  angler  !  As, 
with  panting  sides  and  open  gills,  this  three-quarter-pound 
treasure  of  treasures  flopped  about  on  the  sunny  stream  bank 
all  the  hereditary  instinct  of  sport  spoke  up  clearly  in  Dickie. 
The  boy — such  is  youthful  masculine  human  nature — believed 
he  understood  at  last  why  the  world  was  made  !  At  dressing- 
time  he  had  his  sacred  fish  carried  on  a  plate  up  to  his  room  to 
show  Clara  ;  and,  but  for  strong  remonstrance  on  the  part  of  that 
devoted  handmaiden,  would  have  kept  it  by  his  bedside  all  night, 
so  as  to  assure  himself  at  intervals,  by  sense  of  touch — let  alone 
that  of  smell — of  the  adorable  fact  of  its  veritable  existence. 


THE  BREAKING  OF  DREAxMS  133 

But  all  this,  Inspiring  though  it  was,  served  but  as  prelude 
to  a  more  profoundly  coveted  acquaintance — that  with  the 
racing-stable.  For  it  was  after  this  last  that  Dickie  still 
supremely  longed — the  more  so,  It  is  to  be  feared,  because  it 
was,  if  not  explicitly,  yet  implicitly  forbidden.  A  spirit  of 
defiance  had  entered  into  him.  Being  granted  the  inch,  he 
was  disposed  to  take  the  ell.  And  this,  not  in  conscious 
: opposition  to  his  mother's  will;  but  In  protest,  not  uncou- 
rageous,  against  the  limitations  imposed  on  him  by  physical 
misfortune.  The  boy's  blood  was  up,  and  consequently,  with 
greater  pluck  than  discretion,  he  struggled  against  the  Intimate, 
inalienable  enemy  that  so  marred  his  fate.  And  it  was  this 
not  ignoble  effort  which  culminated  in  disobedience. 

For  driving  back  one  afternoon,  later  than  usual, — Ormlston 
had  met  them,  and  Mary  and  he  had  taken  a  by-path  home 
through  the  v/oods, — the  pony-carriage,  turned  along  the  high 
level  road  beside  the  lake,  going  eastward,  just  as  the  string  of 
race-horses,  coming  home  from  exercise,  passed  along  it  coming 
west.  Richard  was  driving,  Chaplin,  the  second  coachman, 
sitting  In  the  dickey  at  the  back  of  the  low  carriage.  He 
checked  the  pony,  and  his  eyes  took  In  the  whole  scene — the 
blue-brown  expanse  of  the  lake  dotted  with  vi^ater-fowl,  on 
the  one  hand,  the  immense  blue-brown  landscape  on  the  other, 
ranging  away  to  the  faint  line  of  the  chalk  downs  in  the 
south  ;  the  downward  slope  of  the  park,  to  the  great  square  of 
red  stable  buildings  In  the  hollow ;  the  horses  coming  slowly 
towards  him  In  single  file.  Cawing  rooks  streamed  back  from 
the  fallow-fields  across  the  valley.  Thrushes  and  blackbirds 
carolled.  A  wren,  in  the  bramble  brake  close  by,  broke  into 
sharp  sweet  song.  The  recurrent  ring  of  an  axe  came  from 
somewhere  away  In  the  fir  plantations,  and  the  strident  rasping 
of  a  saw  from  the  wood-yard  in  the  beech  grove  near  the  house. 

Richard  stared  at  that  oncoming  procession.  Half-way 
bctv/een  him  and  the  foremost  of  the  horses  the  tan  ride 
branched  off,  and  wound  down  the  hillside  to  the  stables.  The 
boy  set  his  teeth.  He  arrived  at  a  desperate  decision, — 
touched  up  the  pony,  drove  on. 

Chaplin  leaned  forward,  addressing  him,  over  the  back  of 
the  seat. 

"  Better  wait  here,  hadn't  we,  Sir  Richard  ?  They'll  turn 
off  in  a  minute." 


134  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

Richard  did  not  look  round.  He  tried  to  answer  coldly, 
but  his  voice  shook. 

"  I  know.     That's  why  I  am  going  on." 

There  was  a  silence  save  for  the  cawing  of  the  rooks,  ring 
of  the  axe,  and  grinding  of  wheels  on  the  gravel.  Chaplin, 
responsible,  correct,  over  five-and-thirty,  and  fully  intending 
to  succeed  old  Mr.  Wenham,  the  head  coachman,  on  the 
latter's  impending  retirement  from  active  service,  went  very 
red  in  the  face. 

"  Excuse  me,  but  I  have  my  orders,  Sir  Richard,"  he  said. 

Dickie  still  looked  straight  ahead. 

"Very  well,"  he  answered,  "then  perhaps  you'd  better  get 
out  and  walk  on  home." 

"You  know  I'm  bound  not  to  leave  you,  sir,"  the  man  said. 

Dickie  laughed  a  little  in  uncontrollable  excitement.  He 
was  close  to  them  now.  The  leading  horse  was  just  moving 
off  the  main  road,  its  shadow  lying  long  across  the  turf.  How 
was  it  possible  to  give  way  with  the  prize  within  reach  ? — 
"You  can  go  or  stay  Chaplin,  as  you  please.  I  mean  to  speak 
to  Chifnev.     I — I  mean  to  see  the  stables." 

"It's  as  much  as  my  place  is  worth,  sir." 

"  Oh  !  bother  your  place  !  "  the  boy  cried  impetuously. — 
Dear  heart  alive,  how  fine  they  were  as  they  filed  by !  That 
chestnut  filly,  clean  made  as  a  deer,  her  ears  laid  back  as  she 
reached  at  the  bit;  and  the  brown,  just  behind  her —  "I 
mean,  I  mean  you  needn't  be  afraid,  Chaplin — I'll  speak  to 
her  ladyship.     I'll  arrange  all  that.     Go  to  the  pony's  head." 

At  the  end  of  the  long  string  of  horses  came  the  trainer — a 
square-built,  short-necked  man,  sanguine  complexioned  and 
clean  shaven.  Of  hair,  indeed,  Mr.  Chifney  could  only  boast 
a  rim  of  carroty-gray  stubble  under  the  rim  of  the  back  of  his 
hard  hat.  His  right  eye  had  suffered  damage,  and  the  pupil 
of  it  was  white  and  viscous.  His  lips  were  straight  and  pur- 
plish in  colour.  He  raised  his  hat  and  would  have  followed 
on  down  the  slope,  but  Dickie  called  to  him. 

As  he  rode  up  an  unwonted  expression  came  over  Mr. 
Chifney's  shrewd,  hard-favoured  face.  He  took  off  his  hat 
and  sat  there,  bare-headed  \\\  the  sunshine,  looking  down  at 
the  boy,  his  hand  on  his  hip. 

"Good-day,  Sir  Richard,"  he  said.  " Anything  I  can  d© 
for  vou  ?  " 


THE  BREAKING  OF  DREAMS  135 

"  Yes,  yes,"  Dickie  stammered,  all  his  soul  in  his  eyes,  his 
cheeks  aflame,  "you  .:an  do  just  what  I  want  most.  Tarke 
me  down,  Chifney,  and  show  me  the  horses." 

Here  Chaplin  coughed  discreetly  behind  his  hand.  But 
that  proved  of  small  avail,  save  possibly  in  the  way  of  provoca- 
tion. For  socially  between  the  racing  and  house  stables  was  a 
great  gulf  fixed  ;  and  Mr.  Chifney  could  hardly  be  exp:icted  to 
recognise  the  existence  of  a  man  in  livery  standing  at  a  pony's 
head,  still  less  to  accept  direction  from  such  a  person.  Servants 
must  be  kept  in  their  place — impudent,  lazy  enough  lot  any- 
how, bless  you !  On  his  feet  the  trainer  had  been  known  to 
decline  to  moments  of  weakness.  But  in  the  saddle,  a  good 
horse  under  him,  he  possessed  unlimited  belief  in  his  own 
judgment,  fearing  neither  man,  devil,  nor  even  his  own  meek- 
faced  wife  with  pink  ribbons  in  her  cap.  Moreover,  he  felt 
such  heart  as  he  had  go  out  strangely  to  the  beautiful,  eager 
boy  gazing  up  at  him. 

"  Nothing  'ud  give  me  greater  pleasure  in  life,  Sir  Richard," 
he  said,  "  if  you're  free  to  come.  We've  waited  a  long  time, 
a  precious  long  time,  sir,  for  you  to  come  down  and  take  a 
look  at  your  horses." 

"  I'd  have  been  to  see  them  sooner.  I'd  have  given  any- 
thing to  see  them.     I've  never  had  the  chance,  somehow." 

Chifney  pursed  up  his  lips,  and  surveyed  the  distant  land- 
scape with  a  very  meaning  glance.  "  I  dare  say  not.  Sir  Rich- 
ard. But  better  late  than  never,  you  know;  and  so,  if  you 
are  free  to  come " 

Again  Chaplin  coughed. 

"  Free  to  come  ?  Of  course  I  am  free  to  come,"  Dickie 
asserted,  his  pride  touched  to  arrogance.  And  Mr.  Chifney 
looked  at  him,  an  approving  twinkle  in  his  sound  eye. 

"  I  agree,  Sir  Richard.  Quite  right,  sir,  you're  free,  of 
course." 

Stolen  waters  are  sweet,  says  the  proverb.  And  to  Richard 
Calmady,  his  not  wholly  legitimate  experience  of  the  next 
hour  was  sweet  indeed.  For  there  remains  rich  harvest  of 
poetry  in  all  sport  worth  the  name,  let  squeamish  and  senti- 
mental persons  declaim  against  it  as  they  may.  Strength  and 
endurance,  disregard  of  suffering  have  a  permanent  appeal  and 
value,  even  in  their  coarsest  manifestations.  No  doubt  the 
noble  gentlemen   of  the   neighbourhood,  who  "lay  at  Brock- 


136  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

hurst  two  nights  *'  on  the  occasion  of  Sir  DenzePs  historic 
house-warming,  to  witness  the  mighty  bear-baiting,  were 
sensible  of  something  more  in  that  somewhat  disgustino;  ex- 
hibition,  than  the  mere  gratification  of  brutal  instincts,  the 
mere  savage  relish  for  wounds  and  pain  and  blood.  And  to 
Sir  Denzel's  latest  descendant  the  first  sight  of  the  training- 
stable — as  the  pony-carriage  came  to  a  standstill  alongside  the 
grass  plot  in  the  centre  of  the  great,  graveled  square — offered 
very  definite  and  stirring  poetry  of  a  kind. 

On  three  sides  the  quadrangle  was  shut  in  by  one-storied, 
brick  buildings,  the  woodwork  of  doors  and  windows  immacu- 
late with  white  paint.  Behind,  over  the  wide  archway, — 
closed  fortress-like  by  heavy  doors  at  night, — were  the  head- 
lad's  and  helpers'  quarters.  On  either  side,  forge  and  weigh- 
ing-room, saddler's  and  doctor's  shop.  To  right  and  left  a 
range  of  stable  doors,  with  round  swing-lights  between  each ; 
and,  above  these,  the  windows  of  hay  and  straw  lofts  and  of 
the  boys'  dormitories.  In  front  were  the  dining-rooms  and 
kitchens,  and  the  trainer's  house — a  square  clock  tower,  carry- 
ing an  ornate  gilt  vane,  rising  from  the  cluster  of  red  roofs. 
Twenty  years  had  weathered  the  raw  of  brick  walls,  and 
painted  the  tiling  with  all  manner  of  orange  and  rusty- 
coloured  lichens ;  yet  the  whole  place  was  admirably  spick  and 
span,  free  of  litter.  Many  cats,  as  Dickie  noted,  meditated 
in  sunny  corners,  or  prowled  in  the  open  with  truly  official 
composure.  Over  all  stretched  a  square  of  bluest  sky,  crossed 
by  a  skein  of  homeward-wending  rooks.  While  above  the 
roofs,  on  either  side  the  archway,  the  high-lying  lands  of  the 
park  showed  up,  broken,  here  and  there,  by  clumps  of  trees. 

Mr.  Chifney  slipped  out  of  the  saddle. — "  Here  boy,  take 
my  horse,"  he  shouted  to  a  little  fellow  hurrying  across  the 
yard.  "  I'm  heartily  glad  to  see  you.  Sir  Richard,"  he  went 
on.  "  Now,  if  you  care,  as  your  father's  son  can't  very  well 
be  ofF  carine,  for  horses " 


If  I  care  ! "  echoed  Dickie,  his  eyes  following  the  grace- 
ful chestnut  filly  as  she  was  led  in  over  the  threshold  of  her 
stable. 

"  I  like  that.  That'll  do.  Chip  of  the  old  block  after  all,'* 
the  trainer  said,  with  evident  relish.  "Well  then,  since  you 
do  care  for  horses  as  you  ought  to.  Sir  Richard,  we'll  just  make 
you  fre^  of  this  establishment.     About   the   most   first-class 


THE  BREAKING  OF  DREAMS  137 

private  establishment  in  England,  sir,  though  I  say  it  that  have 
run  the  concern  pretty  well  single-handed  for  the  best  part  of 
the  last  fifteen  years — make  you  free  of  it  right  away,  sir. 
And,  look  you,  when  you've  got  hold,  don't  you  leave 
hold." 

"  No,  I  won't,"  Dickie  said  stoutly. 

Mr.  Chifney  was  in  a  condition  of  singular  emotion,  as  he 
wrapped  Richard's  rug  about  him  and  bore  him  away  into  the 
stables.  He  even  went  so  far  as  to  swear  a  little  under  his 
breath ;  and  Chifney  was  a  very  fairly  clean-mouthed  man, 
unless  members  of  his  team  of  twenty  and  odd  naughty  boys 
got  up  to  some  devilry  with  their  charges.  He  carried  Rich- 
ard as  tenderly  as  could  any  woman,  while  he  tramped  from 
stall  to  stall,  loose-box  to  loose-box,  praising  his  racers,  calling 
attention  to  their  points,  recounting  past  prowess,  or  prophesy- 
ing future  victories. 

And  the  record  was  a  fine  one;  for  good  luck  had  clung  to 
the  masterless  stable,  as  Lady  Calmady's  bank-books  and 
ledgers  could  testify. 

"Vinedresser  by  Red  Burgundy  out  of  Valeria — won  two 
races  at  the  Newmarket  Spring  Meeting  the  year  before  last. 
Lamed  himself  somehow  in  the  horse-box  coming  back — did 
nothing  for  eighteen  months — hope  to  enter  him  for  some  of 
the  autumn  events." — Then  later  : — "  Sahara,  by  North  Afri- 
can out  of  Sally-in-our-Alley.  Beautiful  mare  ?  I  believe  you, 
Sir  Richard.  Why  she  won  the  Oaks  for  you.  Jack  White 
was  up.  Pretty  a  race  as  ever  I  witnessed,  and  cleverly  nd- 
<len.  Like  to  go  up  to  her  in  the  stall  ?  She's  as  quiet  as  a 
Iamb.     Catch  hold  of  her  head,  boy." 

And  so  Dick  found  himself  seated  on  the  edge  of  the  manger, 
the  trainer's  arm  round  him,  and  the  historic  Sahara  snuffing  at 
his  jacket  pockets. 

Then  they  crossed  the  quadrangle  to  inspect  the  colts  and 
£llies,  where  glories  still  lay  ahead. 

"Verdigris  by  Copper  King  out  of  Valeria  again.  And  if 
he  doesn't  make  a  name  I'll  never  judge  another  horse,  sir. 
Strain  of  the  old  Touchstone  blood  there.  Rather  ugly  ? 
Yes,  they're  often  a  bit  ugly  that  lot,  but  devilish  good  uns  to 
go.  You  ask  Miss  Cathcart  about  them.  Never  met  a  lady 
who'd  as  much  knowledge  as  she  has  of  a  horse.  The  Baby, 
by  Punch  out  of  Lady  Bountiful.     Not  much  good,  I'm  afraid. 


138  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

No  grip,  you  see,  too  contracted  in  the  hoofs.  Chloroform  by 
Sawbones  out  of  sister  to  Castinette." 

And  so  forth,  an  endless  repetition  of  genealogies,  com- 
ments, anecdotes  to  which  Dickie  lent  most  attentive  ear.  He 
was  keen  to  learn,  his  attention  was  on  the  stretch.  He  was 
in  process  of  initiation,  and  every  moment  of  the  sacred  rites 
came  to  him  with  power  and  value.  Yet  it  must  be  owned 
that  he  found  the  lessening  of  the  strain  on  his  memory  and 
attention  not  wholly  unwelcome  when  Mr.  Chifney,  sitting 
beside  him  on  the  big,  white-painted  cornbin  opposite  Diplo- 
macy's loose-box,  began  to  tell  him  of  the  old  times  when  he 
— a  little  fellow  of  eight  to  ten  years  of  age — had  been  among 
the  boys  in  his  cousin,  Sam  Chifney's  famous  stable  at  New- 
market. Of  the  long,  weary  traveling  before  the  days  of  rail- 
ways, when  the  horses  were  walked  by  highroad  and  country 
lane,  ankle  deep  in  mud,  from  Newmarket  to  Epsom ;  and 
after  victory  or  defeat,  walked  by  slow  stages  all  the  way  home 
again.  Of  how,  later,  he  had  migrated  to  Doncaster ;  but,  not 
liking  the  "Yorkshire  tykes,"  had  got  taken  on  in  some  well- 
known  stables  upon  the  Berkshire  downs. 

"  And  it  was  there.  Sir  Richard,"  he  said,  "  I  met  your 
father,  and  we  fancied  each  other  from  the  first.  And  he 
asked  me  to  come  to  him.  These  stables  were  just  building 
then.     And  here  I've  been  ever  since." 

Mr.  Chifney  stared  down  at  the  clean  red  quarries  of  the 
stable  floor,  and  tapped  his  neat  gaiters  with  the  switch  he  held 
in  his  hand. 

"  Rum  places,  racing  stables,"  he  went  on,  meditatively ; 
"  and  a  lot  of  rum  things  go  on  in  'em,  one  way  and  another, 
as  you'll  come  to  know.  And  it  ain't  the  easiest  thing  going, 
I  tell  you,  to  keep  your  hands  clean.  Ungrateful  business  a 
trainer's.  Sir  Richard — wearing  business — shortens  a  man's 
temper  and  makes  him  old  before  his  time.  Out  by  four 
o'clock  on  summer  mornings,  minding  your  cattle  and  keeping 
your  eye  on  those  shirking  blackguards  of  boys.  No  real  rest, 
sir,  day  or  night.  Wearing  business — studying  all  the  meet- 
ings and  entering  your  horses  where  you've  reason  to  reckon 
they've  most  chance.  And  if  your  horse  wins,  the  jockey 
gets  all  the  praise  and  the  petting.  And  if  it  fails  the  trainer 
gets  all  the  blame.  Yes,  it's  wearing  work.  But,  confound 
it  all,  sir,"  he  broke  out  hotly,  '^  there's  nothing  like  it  on  the 


THE  BREAKING  OF  DREAMS  139 

face  of  God's  earth.  Horses — horses — horses — why  the  very 
smell  of  the  bedding's  sweeter  than  a  bunch  of  roses.  Love 
'em  ?  I  believe  you.  And  you'll  love  'em  too  before  you've 
done." 

He  turned  and  gripped  Dickie  h2rd  by  the  shoulder. 

*'  For  we'll  make  a  thorough-paced  sportsman  of  you  yet, 
Sir  Richard,"  he  said,  "God  bless  you — danged  if  we  don't." 

Which  assertion  Mr.  Chifney  repeated  at  frequent  intervals 
over  his  grog  that  evening,  as  he  sat,  not  in  the  sm.art  dining- 
room  hung  round  with  portraits  of  Vinedresser  and  Sahara  and 
other  equine  notabilities,  but  in  the  snug,  little,  back  parlour 
looking  out  on  to  the  yai-d.  Mrs.  Chifney  was  a  gentle,  pious 
woman,  with  whom  her  husband's  profession  went  somewhat 
against  the  grain.  She  would  have  preferred  a  nice  grocery, 
or  other  respectable,  uneventful  business  in  a  country  town, 
and  dissipation  in  the  form  of  prayer  rather  than  of  race-meet- 
ings. But  as  a  slender,  slightly  self-righteous,  young  maiden 
she  had  fallen  very  honestly  and  completely  in  love  with  Tom 
Chifney.  So  there  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  marry  him  and 
regard  the  horses  as  her  appointed  cross.  She  nursed  the  boys 
when  they  were  sick  or  injured,  intervened  fairly  successfully 
between  their  poor,  little  backs  and  her  husband's  all-too-ready 
ash  stick;  and  assisted  Julius  March  in  promoting  their  spir- 
itual welfare,  even  while  deploring  that  the  latter  put  his  faith 
in  forms  and  ceremonies  rather  than  in  saving  grace.  Upon 
the  trainer  himself  she  exercised  a  gently  repressive  influence. 

"  We  won't  swear,  Mr.  Chifney,"  she  remarked  mildly 
now. 

"  Swear  !  It's  enough  to  make  the  whole  bench  of  bishops 
swear  to  see  that  lad." 

"  I  did  see  him,"  Mrs.  Chifney  observed. 

^'  Yes,  out  of  window.  But  you  didn't  carry  him  round, 
and  hear  him  talk — knowledgeable  talk  as  you  could  ask  from 
one  of  his  age.  And  watch  his  face — as  like  as  two  peas  to 
his  father's." 

"  But  her  ladyship's  eyes,"  put  in  Mrs.  Chifney. 

''  I  don't  know  whose  eyes  they  are,  but  I  know  he  can  use 
'em.     It  was  as  pretty  as  a  picture  to  see  how  he  took  it  all." 

Chifney  tossed  off  the  remainder  of  his  tumbler  of  brandy 
and  water  at  a  gulp. 

"  Swear,"  he  repeated, "  I  could  find  it  in  my  heart  to  swear 


140  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

like  hell.  But  I  can  find  it  in  my  heart  to  do  more  than  that. 
I  can  forgive  her  ladyship.     By  all  that's " 

"  Thomas,  forgiveness  and  oaths  don't  go  suitably  together.'* 

"  Well,  but  I  can  though,  and  I  tell  you,  I  do,"  he  said 
solemnly.  "  I  forgive  her. — Shoot  the  Clown  !  by  G — !  I 
beg  your  pardon,  Maria ; — but  upon  my  soul,  once  or  twice^ 
when  I  had  him  in  my  arms  to-day,  I  felt  I  could  have  under- 
stood it  if  she'd  had  every  horse  shot  that  stood  in  the  stable." 

He  held  the  tumbler  up  against  the  lamp.  But  it  was  quite 
empty. 

"  Uncommon  glad  she  didn't  though,  poor  lady,  all  the 
same,"  he  added,  parenthetically,  as  he  set  it  down  on  the  table 
again.  "  What  do  you  say,  Maria — about  time  we  toddled  off 
to  bed  ? " 


CHAPTER  V 

IN   WHICH    DICKIE    IS  INTRODUCED  TO  A  LITTLE  DANCER  WITH 
BLUSH-ROSES    IN    HER    HAT 

"  IITER  ladyship's  inquired  for  you  more  than  once,  sir.'" 
This  from  Winter  meeting  the  pony-carriage  and  the 
returning  prodigal  at  the  bottom  of  the  steps. 

The  sun  was  low.  Across  the  square  lawn — whereon  the 
Clown  had  found  death  some  thirteen  years  before — peacocks 
led  home  their  hens  and  chicks  to  roost  within  the  two  sex- 
agonal,  pepper-pot  summer-houses  that  fill  in  the  angles  of  the 
red-walled  enclosure.  The  pea-fowl  stepped  mincingly,  high- 
shouldered,  their  heads  carried  low,  their  long  necks  undulating 
with  a  self-conscious  grace.  Dickie's  imagination  was  aglow 
like  that  rose-red  sunset  sky.  The  virile  sentiment  of  all  just 
heard  and  seen,  and  the  exultation  of  admitted  ownership  were 
upon  him.  He  felt  older,  stronger,  more  secure  of  himself 
than  ever  before.  He  proposed  to  go  straight  to  his  mother 
and  confess.  In  his  present  mood  he  entertained  no  fear  but 
that  she  would  understand. 

"  Is  Lady  Calmady  alone  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Cathcart  are  with  her.  Sir  Richard."' 
Winter  leant  down,  loosening  the  rug.     His  usual,  undemon- 


THE  BREAKING  OF  DREAMS  141 

strative  speech  took  on  a  loftiness  of  tone.  "  Mrs.  William 
Ormiston  and  her  daughter  have  driyen  over  with  Mrs. 
Cathcart." — The  butler  was  not  without  remembrance  of  that 
dinner  on  the  day  following  Dickie's  birth.  Socially  he  had 
never  considered  Lady  Calmady's  sister-in-law  quite  up  to  the 
Brockhurst  level. 

Richard  leaned  back,  watching  the  mincing  peacocks.  It 
was  so  fair  here  out  of  doors.  The  scent  of  the  may  hung  in 
the  air.  The  flame  of  the  sunset  bathed  the  facade  of  the 
stately  house.  No  doubt  it  would  be  interesting  to  see  new 
people,  new  relations;  but  he  really  cared  to  see  no  one  just 
now,  except  his  mother.  From  her  he  wanted  to  receive  ab- 
solution, so  that,  his  conscience  relieved  of  the  burden  of  his 
disobedience,  he  might  revel  to  the  full  in  the  thought  of  the 
inheritance  upon  which — so  it  seemed  to  him — he  had  to-day 
entered.  Still,  in  his  present  humour,  Dickie's  sense  of 
noblesse  oblige  was  strong. 

"I  suppose  Tve  got  to  go  in  and  help  entertain  everybody," 
he  remarked. 

"  Her  ladyship'll  think  something's  wrong,  Sir  Richard,  and 
'be  anxious  if  you  stay  away." 

The  boy  held  out  his  arms.  "  All  right  then.  Winter,"  he 
said. 

Here  Chaplin  again  gave  that  admonitory  cough.  Richard, 
his  face  hardening  to  slight  scorn,  looked  at  him  over  the  but- 
ler's shoulder. 

"  Oh  !  You  need  not  be  uneasy,  Chaplin.  When  I  say 
ril  do  a  thing,  I  don't   forget." 

Which  brief  speech  caused  the  butler  to  reflect,  as  he  bore 
the  boy  across  the  hall  and  up-stairs,  that  Sir  Richard  was 
coming  to  have  an  uncommonly  high  manner  about  him,  at 
times,  considering  his  age. 

An  unwonted  loudness  of  conversation  filled  the  Chapel- 
Room.  It  was  filled  also  by  the  rose-red  light  of  the  sunset 
streaming  in  through  the  curve  of  the  oriel-window.  This 
confused  and  dazzled  Richard  slightly,  entering  upon  it 
from  the  silence  and  sober  clearness  of  the  stair-head.  A 
shrill  note  of  laughter. — Mr.  Cathcart's  voice  saying,  "  I  felt 
it  incumbent  upon  me  to  object.  Lady  Calmady.  I  spoke 
very  plainly  to  p'allowfeild." — Julius  March's  delicately  refined 
tones,  "  I  am   afraid  spirituality  is  somewhat  deficient  in  that 


142  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

case." — Then  the  high  flute-like  notes  of  a  child,  rising  clearly 
above  the  general  murmur,  *'''Jh  !  enfin — le  voila^  Maman. 
C*est  b'len  lui^  rC est-ce  pas?'*^  And  with  that,  Richard  was 
aware  of  a  sudden  hush  falling  upon  the  assembled  company. 
He  was  sensible  every  one  watched  him  as  Winter  carried  him 
across  the  room  and  set  him  down  in  the  long,  low  armchair 
near  the  fireplace.  Poor  Dickie's  self-consciousness,  which 
had  been  so  agreeably  in  abeyance,  returned  upon  him,  and 
a  red,  not  of  the  sunset,  dyed  his  face.  But  he  carried  his 
head  proudly.  He  thought  of  Chifney  and  the  horses.  He 
refused  to  be  abashed. 

And  Ormiston,  breaking  the  silence,  called  to  him  cheerily  : — 

"  Hello,  old  chap,  what  have  you  been  up  to  ?  You  gave 
Mary  and  me  the  slip." 

"  I  know  I  did,"  the  boy  answered  bravely.  "  How  d'y^ 
do,  Mrs.  Cathcart  ?  "  as  the  latter  nodded  and  smiled  to  him 
— a  large,  gentle,  comfortable  lady,  uncertain  in  outline^ 
thanks  to  voluminous  draperies  of  black  silk  and  black  lace. 
"  How  d'ye  do,  sir  ?  "  this  to  Mr.  Cathcart — a  tall,  neatly- 
made  man,  but  for  a  slight  roundness  of  the  shoulders.  See- 
ing him,  there  remained  no  doubt  as  to  whence  Mary  inherited 
her  large  mouth  ;  but  matter  for  thankfulness  that  she  had 
avoided  further  inheritance.  For  Mr.  Cathcart  was  notably 
plain.  Small  eyes  and  snub  nose,  long  lower  jaw,  and  gray 
forward-curled  whiskers  rendered  his  appearance  unfortunately 
simian.  He  suggested  a  caricature  \  but  one,  let  it  be  added^ 
of  a  person  undeniably  well-bred. 

"  My  darling,  you  are  very  late,"  Katherine  said.  Her 
back  was  towards  her  guests  as  she  stooped  down  arranging 
the  embroidered  rug  across  Dickie's  feet  and  legs.  Laying  his 
hand  on  her  wrist  he  squeezed  it  closely  for  a  moment. 

"  I — I'll  tell  you  all  about  that  presently,  mummy,  when 
they're  gone.  I've  been  enjoying  myself  awfully — you  won't 
mind  ? " 

Katherine  smiled.  But,  looking  up  at  her,  it  appeared  ta 
Richard  that  her  face  was  very  white,  her  eyes  very  large  and 
dark,  and  that  she  was  very  tall  and,  somehow,  very  splendid 
just  then.  And  this  fed  his  fearlessness,  fed  his  young  pride, 
even  as,  though  in  a  more  subtle  and  exquisite  manner,  his 
late  experience  of  the  racing-stable  had  fed  them.  His  mother 
moved  away  and  took  up  her  interrupted  conversation  with 


THE  BREAKING  OF  DREAMS  143 

Mr.  Cathcart  regarding  the  delinquencies  of  Lord  Fallowfeild. 
Richard  looked  coolly  round  the  room. 

Every  one  was  there — Julius,  Mary,  Mademoiselle  dcj 
Mirancourt,  while  away  in  the  oriel-window  Roger  Ormiston 
stood  talking  to  a  pretty,  plump,  very  much  dressed  lady,  who 
chattered,  laughed,  stared,  with  surprising  vivacity.  As  Dickie 
looked  at  her  she  stared  back  at  him  through  a  pair  of  gold 
eye-glasses.  Against  her  knee,  that  rosy  light  bathing  her 
graceful,  little  figure,  leant  a  girl  about  Dickie's  own  age. 
She  wore  a  pale  pink  and  blue  frock,  short  and  outstanding  in 
the  skirts.  She  also  wore  a  broad-brimmed,  white  hat,  with 
a  garland  of  blush-roses  around  the  crown  of  it.  The  little 
girl  did  not  stare.  She  contemplated  Richard  languidly,  yet 
with  sustained  attention.  Her  attitude  and  bearing  were  at- 
tractive. Richard  wanted  to  see  her  close,  to  talk  to  her. 
But  to  call  and  ask  her  to  come  to  him  was  awkward.  And 
to  go  to  her — the  boy  grew  a  little  hot  again — was  more 
awkward  still. 

Mrs.  Ormiston  dropped  her  gold  eye-glasses  into  her  lap. 

"  It  really  is  ten  thousand  pities  when  these  things  happen 
in  the  wrong  rank  of  life,"  she  said.  "  Rightly  placed  they 
might  be  so  profitable." 

"  For  goodness  sake,  be  careful,  Ella,"  Ormiston  put  in 
quickly. 

"  Oh  !  My  dear  creature,  don't  be  nervous.  Everybody's 
attending  to  everybody  else,  and  if  they  did  hear  they  wouldn't 
understand.  I'm  one  of  the  fortunate  persons  who  are  sup- 
posed never  to  talk  sense  and  so  I  can  say  what  I  like." 
Mrs.  Ormiston  gave  her  shrill  little  laugh.  "Oh!  there  arc 
consolations,  depend  upon  it,  in  a  well-sustained  reputation  for 
folly !  " 

The  laugh  jarred  on  Richard.  He  decided  that  he  did  not 
quite  like  his  aunt  Charlotte  Ormiston.  All  the  same  he 
wished  the  charming,  little  girl  would  come  to  him. 

"  But  to  return.  It's  a  waste.  To  some  poor  family  it 
might  have  been  a  perfect  fortune.  And  I  hate  waste.  Per- 
haps you  have  never  discovered  that  ?  " 

Ormiston  let  his  glance  rest  on  the  somewhat  showy  figure. 

"  I  doubt  if  William  has  discovered  it  either,"  he  remarked. 

"  Oh  !  as  to  your  poor  brother  William,  heaven  only  knows 
-what  he  has   or  has  not  discovered  ! — Now,  Helen,  this  con- 


144  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

versation  becomes  undesirable.  You've  asked  innumerable 
questions  about  your  cousin.  Go  and  make  acquaintance 
with  him.  Fm  the  best  of  mothers  of  course,  but,  at  times,  I 
really  can  do  quite  well  without  you." 

Now  surely  this  was  a  day  of  good  fortune,  for  again  Dickie 
had  his  desire.  And  a  most  surprisingly  pretty,  little  desire  it 
proved — seductive  even,  deliciously  finished  in  person  and  in 
manner.  The  boy  gazed  at  the  girl's  small  hands  and  small, 
daintily  shod  feet,  at  the  small,  lovely,  pink  and  white  face  set 
in  a  cloud  of  golden-brown  hair,  at  the  innocent,  blue  eyes,  at 
the  mouth  with  upturned  corners  to  it.  Richard  was  not  of 
age  to  remark  the  eyes  were  rather  light  in  colour,  the  lips 
rather  thin.  The  exquisite  refinement  of  the  girl's  whole 
person  delighted  him.  She  was  delicate  as  a  miniature,  as 
a  figure  carved  in  ivory.  She  was  like  his  Uncle  Roger,  when 
she  was  silent  and  still.  She  was  like — oh,  poor  Dick  ! — 
some  bright  glancing,  small,  saucy  bird  when  she  spoke  and 
her  voice  had  those  clear,  flute  tones  in  it. 

*^  Since  you  did  not  come  to  me,  I  had  to  come  to  you,"  she 
said.  "  I  have  wanted  so  much  to  see  you.  I  had  heard 
about  you  at  home,  in  Paris." 

"  Heard  about  me  ?  "  Dickie  repeated,  flattered  and  sur- 
prised. "  But  won't  you  sit  down.  Look — that  little  chair* 
I  can  reach  it." 

And  leaning  sideways  he  stretched  out  his  hand.  But  his 
finger-tips  barely  touched  the  top  rail.  Richard  flushed* 
''  I'm  awfully  sorry,"  he  said,  "  but  I  am  afraid — it  isn't  heavy 
— I  must  let  you  get  It  yourself." 

The  girl,  who  had  watched  him  intently,  her  hands  clasped, 
gave  a  little  sigh.  Then  the  corners  of  her  mouth  turned  up 
as  she  smiled.     A  delightful  dimple  showed  in  her  right  cheek. 

"  But,  of  course,"  she  replied,  "  I  will  get  it." 

She  settled  herself  beside  him,  folded  her  hands,  crossed 
her  feet,  exposing  a  long  length  of  fine,  open-work,  silk 
stocking. 

"  I  desired  enormously  to  see  you,"  she  continued.  "  But 
when  you  came  in  I  grew  shy.     It  Is  so  with  one  sometimes." 

"You  should  use  your  Influence,  Lady  Calmady,"  Mr. 
Cathcart  was  saying.  "  Unquestionably  the  condition  of  the 
workhouse  Is  far  from  satisfactory.  And  Fallowfeild  is  too 
lenient.     That  laisser-aller  policy  of  his  threatens  to  land  us 


THE  BREAKING  OF  DREAMS  145 

in  serious  difficulties.  The  p/ace  is  insanitary,  and  the  food 
is  unnecessarily  poor.  I  am  not  an  advocate  for  extrava- 
gance, but  I  cannot  bear  to  see  discomfort  which  might  be 
avoided.  Fallowfeild  is  the  most  kind-hearted  of  men,  but 
he  has  a  fatal  habit  of  believing  what  people  tell  him.  And 
those  workhouse  officials  have  got  round  him.  The  whole 
matter  ought  to  be  subjected  to  the  strictest  investigation." 

"  It  is  very  nice  of  you  to  have  wanted  so  much  to  see  me," 
Dickie  said.     His  eyes  were  softly  bright. 

"  Oh  !  but  one  always  wants  to  see  those  who  are  talked 
about.     It  is  a  privilege  to  have  them  for  one's  relations." 

"  But — but — I'm  not  talked  about  ?  "  the  boy  put  in,  some- 
what startled. 

"But  certainly.  You  are  so  rich.  You  have  this  superb 
chateau.  You  are  " — she  put  her  head  on  one  side  with  a 
pretty,  saucy,  birdlike  movement — ^^ enfin^''  she  said,  "  I  had 
the  greatest  curiosity  to  make  your  acquaintance.  I  shall  tell 
all  my  young  friends  at  the  convent  about  this  visit.  I  prom- 
ised them  that,  as  soon  as  mamma  said  w^e  should  probably 
come  here.  The  good  sisters  also  are  interested.  I  shall  re- 
count a  whole  history  of  this  beautiful  castle,  and  of  you,  and 
your " 

She  paused,  clasped  her  hands,  looking  away  at  her  mother, 
then  sideways  at  Richard,  bowing  her  little  person  backwards 
and  forwards,  laughing  softly  all  the  while.  And  her  laughing 
face  was  extraordinarily  pretty  under  the  shade  of  her  broad- 
brimmed  hat. 

''  It  is  a  great  misfortune  we  stay  so  short  a  time,"  she  con- 
tinued.    "  I  shall  not  see  the  half  of  all  that  I  wish  to  see." 

Then  an  heroic  plan  of  action  occurred  to  Richard.  The 
daring  engendered  by  his  recent  act  of  disobedience  was  still 
active  in  him.  He  was  in  the  humour  to  attempt  the  impos- 
sible. He  longed,  moreover,  to  give  this  delectable  little  per- 
son pleasure.  He  was  willing  even  to  sacrifice  a  measure  of 
personal  dignity  In  her  service. 

"  Oh  !  but  if  you  care  so  much,  I — I  will  show  you  the 
house,"  he  said. 

"  Will  you  ?  "  she  cried.  "  You  and  I  alone  together.  But 
that  is  precisely  what  I  want.      It  would  be  ravishing." 

Poor  Dickie's  heart  misgave  him  slightly ;  but  he  sum- 
moned all  his  resolution.     He  threw  ofF  the  concealing  rug. 


146  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

"  I — I  walk  very  slowly,  I'm  afraid,"  he  said  rather  huskily, 
looking  up  at  her,  while  in  his  expression  appeal  mingled  pa- 
thetically with  defiant  pride. 

"  But,  so  much  the  better,"  she  replied.  "  We  shall  be  the 
longer  together.     I  shall  have  the  more  to  observe,  to  recount." 

She  was  on  her  feet.  She  hovered  round  him,  birdlike,  in- 
tent on  his  every  movement. 

Meanwhile  the  sound  of  conversation  rose  continuous. 
Lady  Calmady,  calling  to  Julius,  had  moved  away  to  the  great 
writing-table  in  the  farther  window.  Together  they  searched 
among  a  pile  of  papers  for  a  letter  of  Dr.  Knott's  embodying 
his  scheme  of  the  new  hospital  at  Westchurch.  Mr.  Cath- 
cart  stood  by,  expounding  his  views  on  the  subject. 

"  Of  course  a  considerable  income  can  be  derived  from 
letters  of  recommendation,"  he  was  saying,  "  in-patient  and 
out-patient  tickets.  The  clergy  come  in  there.  They  cannot 
be  expected  to  give  large  donations.  It  would  be  unreason- 
able to  expect  that  of  them." 

Mademoiselle  de  Mirancourt,  Mrs.  Cathcart,  and  Mary 
had  drawn  their  chairs  together.  The  two  elder  ladies  spoke 
with  a  subdued  enthusiasm,  discussing  pleasant  details  of  the 
approaching  wedding,  which  promised  the  younger  lady  so 
glad  a  future.  Mrs.  Ormiston  chattered  ;  while  Ormiston, 
listening  to  her,  gazed  away  down  the  green  length  of  the 
elm  avenue,  beyond  the  square  lawn  and  pepper-pot  summer- 
houses,  and  pitied  men  who  made  such  mistakes  in  the  matter 
of  matrimony  as  his  brother  William  obviously  had.  The 
rose  of  the  sunset  faded  in  the  west.  Bats  began  to  flit  forth, 
hawking  against  the  still  warm  house-walls  for  flies. 

And  so,  unobserved,  Dickie  slipped  out  of  the  security  of 
his  armchair,  and  rose  to  that  sadly  deficient  full  height  of  his. 
He  was  nervous,  and  this  rendered  his  balance  more  than  ever 
uncertain.  He  shuflfled  forward,  steadying  himself  by  a  piece 
of  furniture  here  and  there  in  passing,  until  he  reached  the 
wide  open  space  before  the  door  on  to  the  stair-head.  And  it 
required  some  fortitude  to  cross  this  space,  for  here  was  noth- 
ing to  lay  hold  of  for  support. 

Little  Helen  Ormiston  had  kept  close  beside  him  so  far. 
Now  she  drew  back,  leaving  him  alone.  Leaning  against  a 
table,  she  watched  his  laborious  progress.  Then  a  fit  of  un- 
controllable laughter  took  her.     She  flew  half-way  across  to 


THE  BREAKING  OF  DREAMS  147 

the  oriel-window,  her  voice  ringing  out  clear  and  gay,  though 
broken  by  bursts  of  irrepressible  merriment. 

"  Regardez^  regardex  donc^  Maman  !  Ma  bonne  yn^avait  dtt 
qu*il  etait  un  avorton^  et  que  ce  seratt  tres  amusant  de  le  voir, 
Elle  nC a  conseiller  de  lui fa'tre  marcher,^* 

She  darted  back,  and  clapping  her  hands  upon  the  bosom  of 
her  charming  frock,  danced,  literally  danced  and  pirouetted 
around  poor  Dickie. 

"  Moi^  je  ne  comprenais  pas  ce  que  c* etait  qu'un  avorton^^  she 
continued  rapidly.  "  Mais  je  comprends  parfaitement  main- 
tenant,      C'est  un  monstre^  n'est-ce  pas^  Maman?  '* 

She  threw  back  her  head,  her  white  throat  convulsed  by 
laughter. 

^^  Jh  !  mon  Dieu^  qu^il  est  drole  !  "  she  cried. 

Silence  fell  on  the  whole  room,  for  sight  and  words  alike 
were  paralysing  in  their  grotesque  cruelty.  Ormiston  was  the 
first  to  speak.  He  laid  his  hand  somewhat  roughly  on  his 
sister-in-law's  shoulder. 

"  For  God's  sake,  stop  this,  Ella,"  he  said.  "  Take  the 
girl  away.  Little  brute,"  he  added,  under  his  breath,  as  he 
went  hastily  across  to  poor  Dick. 

But  Lady  Calmady  had  been  beforehand  with  him.  She 
swept  across  the  room,  flinging  aside  the  dainty,  dancing  figure 
as  she  passed.  All  the  primitive  fierceness,  the  savage  ten 
dcrness  of  her  motherhood  surged  up  within  her.  Katherine 
was  in  the  humour  to  kill  just  then,  had  killing  been  possible. 
She  was  magnificently  regardless  of  consequences,  regardless 
of  conventionalities,  regardless  of  every  obligation  save  that 
of  sheltering  her  child.  She  cowered  down  over  Richard, 
putting  her  arms  about  him,  knew — without  question  or  an- 
swer— that  he  had  heard  and  understood.  Then  gathering  him 
up  against  her,  she  stood  upright,  facing  them  all,  brother, 
sister,  old  and  tried  friends,  a  terrible  expression  in  her  eyes, 
the  boy's  face  pressed  down  upon  her  shoulder.  For  the  mo- 
ment she  appeared  alienated  from,  and  at  war  with,  even 
Julius,  even  Marie  de  Mirancourt.  No  love,  however  faith- 
ful, could  reach  her.  She  was  alone,  unapproachable,  in  her 
immense  anger  and  immense  sense  of  outrage. 

"  I  will  ask  you  to  go,"  she  said  to  her  sister-in-law, —  "  to  go 
and  take  your  daughter  with  you,  and  to  enter  this  house  no  more." 

Mrs.  Ormiston  did  not  reply.     Even  her  chatter  was  for  the 


148  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

moment  stilled.  She  pressed  a  handkerchief  against  the  little 
dancer's  forehead,  and  it  was  stained  with  blood. 

"  Ah  !  she  is  a  wicked  woman  !  "  wailed  the  child.  "  She 
has  hurt  me.  She  threw  me  against  the  table.  Maman  quel 
malheur  fa  se  verra,      II  y  aura  certainement  une  pcatrice  !  *' 

"  Nonsense,"  Ormiston  said  harshly.  "  It's  nothing,  Kitty, 
the  merest  scratch." 

"Yes,  my  dear,  we  will  have  the  carriage  at  once," — this 
from  Mr.  Cathcart  to  his  wife.  The  incident,  from  all  points 
of  view,  shocked  his  sense  of  decency.  Immediate  retirement 
became  his  sole  object. 

Lady  Calmady  moved  away,  carrying  the  boy.  She  trembled 
a  little.  He  was  heavy.  Moreover,  she  sickened  at  the  sight 
of  blood.  But  little  Helen  Ormiston  caught  at  her  dress, 
looked  up  at  her. 

"I  hate  you,"  she  said,  hissing  the  words  out  with  concen- 
trated passion  between  her  pretty  even  teeth.  "  You  have 
spoilt  me.  I  will  hate  you  always,  when  I  grow  up.  I  will 
never  forget." 

Alone  in  the  great  state-bedroom  next  door,  a  long  time 
elapsed  before  either  Richard  or  Katheririe  spoke.  The  boy 
leaned  back  against  the  sofa  cushions,  holding  his  mother's 
hand.  The  casements  stood  wide  open,  and  little  winds  laden 
with  the  scent  of  the  hawthorns  in  the  park  wandered  in,  gently 
stirring  the  curtains  of  the  ebony  bed,  so  that  the  trees  of  the 
Forest  of  This  Life  thereon  embroidered  appeared  somewhat 
mournfully  to  wave  their  branches,  while  the  Hart  fled  forward 
and  the  Leopard,  relentless  in  perpetual  pursuit,  followed  close 
behind.  There  was  a  crunching  of  wheels  on  the  gravel,  a 
sound  of  hurried  farewells.  Then  in  a  minute  or  two  more 
the  evening  quiet  held  its  own  again. 

Suddenly  Dickie  flung  himself  down  across  Katherine's  lap, 
his  poor  body  shaken  by  a  tempest  of  weeping. 

"  Mother,  I  can't  bear  it — I  can't  bear  it,"  he  sobbed. 
*^  Tell  me,  does  everybody  do  that  ?  " 

"  Do  what,  my  own  precious  ?  "  she  said,  calm  from  very 
excess  of  sorrow.  Later  she  would  weep  too  in  the  dark,  lymg 
lonely  in  the  cold  comfort  of  that  stately  bed. 

"  Laugh  at  me,  mother,  mock  at  me  ?  "  and  his  voice,  for 
all  that  he  tried  to  control  it,  tore  at  his  throat  and  rose  almost 
to  a  shriek. 


THE  BREAKING  OF  DREAMS  149 


CHAPTER  VI 

DEALING  WITH    A   PHYSICIAN   OF    THE  BODY    AND  A  PHYSICIAN 

OF  THE   SOUL 

TITISTORY  repeats  itself,  and  to  Katherine  just  now  came 
most  unwelcome  example  of  such  repetition.  She  had 
foreseen  that  some  such  crisis  must  arise  as  had  arisen.  Yet 
when  it  arose,  the  crisis  proved  none  the  less  agonising  because 
of  that  foreknowledge.  Two  strains  of  feeling  struggled  within 
her.  A  blinding  sorrow  for  her  child,  a  fear  of  and  shame  at 
her  own  violence  of  anger.  Katherine's  mind  was  of  an 
uncompromising  honesty.  She  knew  that  her  instinct  had,  for 
a  space  at  least,  been  murderous.  She  knew  that,  given  equal 
provocation,  it  would  be  murderous  again. 

And  this  was,  after  all,  but  the  active,  objective  aspect  of  the 
matter.  The  passive  and  subjective  aspect  showed  danger 
also.  In  her  extremity  Katherine's  soul  cried  out  for  God — 
for  the  sure  resting-place  only  to  be  found  by  conscious  union 
of  the  individual  with  the  eternal  will.  But  such  repose  was 
denied  her.  For  her  anger  against  God,  even  while  thus 
earnestly  desiring  Him,  was  even  more  profound  than  her 
anger  against  man.  The  passion  of  those  terrible  early  days 
when  her  child's  evil  fortune  first  became  known  to  her — held 
in  abeyance  all  these  years  by  constant  employment  and  the 
many  duties  incident  to  her  position — returned  upon  her  in  its 
first  force.  To  believe  God  is  not,  leaves  the  poor  human  soul 
homeless,  sadly  desolate,  barren  in  labour  as  is  a  slave.  But 
the  sorrow  of  such  belief  is  as  a  trifle  beside  the  hideous  fear 
that  God  is  careless  and  unjust,  that  virtue  is  but  a  fond 
imagination  of  all-too-noble  human  hearts,  that  the  everlasting 
purpose  is  not  good  but  evil  continually.  And,  haunted  by 
such  fears,  Katherine  once  again  sat  in  outer  darkness.  All 
gracious  thmgs  appeared  to  her  as  illusions;  all  gentle  delights 
but  as  passing  anodynes  with  which,  in  his  misery,  man  weakly 
tries  to  deaden  the  pain  of  existence  for  a  little  space.  She 
suffered  a  profound  discouragement. 


ISO  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

And  so  it  seemed  to  her  but  as  part  of  the  cruel  whole  whert 
history  repeated  itself  yet  further,  and  Dr.  Knott,  pausing  at 
the  door  of  Richard's  bedroom,  turned  and  said  to  her: — 

"  It  will  be  better,  you  know,  Lady  Calmady,  to  let  him  face 
it  alone.  He'll  feel  it  less  without  you.  Winter  can  give  me 
all  the  assistance  I  want."  Then  he  added,  a  queer  smile 
playing  about  his  loose  lips  : — "  Don't  be  afraid.  I'll  handle  him 
very  gently.  Probably  I  shan't  hurt  him  at  all — certainly  not 
much." 

^' Ah  !  "  Katherine  said,  under  her  breath. 

''You  see  it  is  done  by  his  own  wish,"  John  Knott  went  on^ 

''  I  know,"  she  answered. 

She  respected  and  trusted  this  man,  entertained  for  him^ 
notwithstanding  his  harsh  speech  and  uncouth  exterior,  some- 
thing akin  to  affection.  Yet  remembering  the  part  he  had 
played  in  the  fate  of  the  father,  it  was  very  dreadful  to  her 
that  he  should  touch  the  child.  And  Dr.  Knott  read  her 
thought.  He  did  not  resent  it.  It  was  all  natural  enough  ! 
From  his  heart  he  was  sorry  for  her,  and  would  have  spared 
her  had  that  been  possible.  But  he  discriminated  very  clearly 
between  primary  and  secondary  issues,  never  sacrificing,  as  do 
feeble  and  sentimental  persons,  the  former  to  the  latter.  In 
this  case  the  boy  had  a  right  to  the  stage,  and  so  the  mother 
must  stand  in  the  wings.  John  Knott  possessed  a  keen  sense 
of  values  in  the  human  drama  which  the  exigencies  of  his 
profession  so  perpetually  presented  to  him.  He  waited  quietly y^ 
his  hand  on  the  door-handle,  looking  at  Katherine  from  under 
his  rough  eyebrows,  silently  opposing  his  will  to  hers. 

Suddenly  she  turned  away  with  an  impatient  gesture. 

"  I  will  not  come  with  you,"  she  said. 

"  You  are  right."  ..^ — -- — 

"  But — but — do  you  think  you  can  really  do  anything  to  help 
him,  to  make  him  happier  ?  "  Katherine  asked,  a  desperation 
in  the  tones  of  her  voice. 

"Happier?  Yes,  in  the  long  run,  because  certainty  of 
whatever  kind,  even  certainty  of  failure,  makes  eventually  for 
peace  of  mind." 

"  That  is  a  hard  saying." 

"  This  is  a  hard  world."  Dr.  Knott  looked  down  at  the 
floor,  shrugging  his  unwieldy  shoulders.  "  The  sooner  we 
learn   to  accept  that  fact  the  better.  Lady  Calmady.     I  know 


THE  BREAKING  OF  DREAMS  151 

it  is  sharp  discipline,  but  it  saves  time  and  money,  let  alone 
disappointment. — Now  as  to  all  these  elaborate  contrivances 
Tve  brought  down  from  London,  they're  the  very  best  of 
their  kind.  But  I  am  bound  to  own  the  most  ingenious  of 
such  arrangements  are  but  clumsy  remedies  for  natural 
deficiency.  Man  hasn't  discovered  how  to  make  over  his  own 
body  yet,  and  never  will.  The  Almighty  will  always  have 
the  whip-hand  of  us  when  it  comes  to  dealing  with  flesh  and 
blood.    All  the  same  we've  got  to  try  these  legs  and  things " 

Katherine  winced,  pressing  her  lips  together.  It  was  brutal, 
surely,  to  speak  so  plainly  ?  But  John  Knott  went  on 
quietly,  commiserating  her  inwardly,  yet  unswerving  in 
common  sense. 

"  Try  'em  every  one,  and  so  convince  Sir  Richard  one  way 
or  the  other.  This  is  a  turning-point.  So  far  his  general 
health  has  been  remarkably  good,  and  we've  just  got  to  set  our 
minds  to  keeping  it  good.  He  must  not  fret  if  we  can  help  it. 
If  he  frets,  instead  of  developing  into  the  sane,  manly  fellow 
he  should,  he  may  turn  peevish.  Lady  Calmady,  and  grow  up  a 
morbid,  neurotic  lad,  the  victim  of  all  manner  of  brain-sick 
fancies — become  envious,  spiteful,  a  misery  to  others  and  to 
himself." 

"It  is  necessary  to  say  all  this  ? "  Katherine  asked  loftily. 

Dr.  Knott's  eyes  looked  very  straight  into  hers,  and  there 
were  tears  in  them. 

"  Indeed,  I  believe  it  is,"  he  replied,  "  or,  trust  me,  I 
wouldn't  say  it.  I  take  no  pleasure  in  giving  pain  at  this  time  of 
day,  whether  mental  or  physical.  All  I  want  is  to  spare  pain. 
But  one  must  sacrifice  the  present  to  the  future,  at  times,  you 
know — use  the  knife  to  save  the  limb.  Now  I  must  go  to  my 
patient.  It  isn't  fair  to  keep  him  waiting  any  longer.  I'll  be 
as  quick  as  I  can.  I  suppose  I  shall  find  you  here  when  I've 
finished  ? " 

As  he  opened  the  door  Dr.  Knott's  heavy  person  showed  in 
all  its  ungainliness  against  the  brightness  of  sunlight  flooding 
Dickie's  room.  And  to  Katherine  he  seemed  hideous  just 
then — inexorable  in  his  great  common  sense,  in  the  dead 
weight  of  his  personality  and  of  his  will,  as  some  power  of 
nature.  He  was  to  her  the  incarnation  of  things  as  they  are, 
— not  things  as  they  should  be,  not  things  as  she  so  passionately 
desired  they  might  be.     He  represented  rationalism  as  against 


152  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

miracle,  intellect  as  against  imagination,  the  bitter  philosophy 
of  experience  as  against  that  for  which  all  mortals  so  persist- 
ently cry  out — namdy,  the  all-consolin^fpromise  of  extrava- 
gant hope.  As  with  chains  he  bouna  her  down  to  fact. 
Right  home  on  her  he  pressed  the  utter  futility  of  juggling 
with  the  actual.  j[^rom  the  harsh  truth  that,  neither  in  mat- 
ters practical  nor  spiritual  is  any  redemption  without  shedding 
of  blood  he  permitted  her  no  escape. 

And  all  this  Katherine's  clear  brain  recognised  and  admitted, 
even  while  her  poor  heart  only  rebelled  the  more  madly.  To 
be  convinced  is  not  to  be  reconciled.  And  so  she  turned 
away  from  that  closed  door  in  a  veritable  tempest  of  feeling, 
and  went  out  into  the  Chapel-Room.  It  was  safer,  her  mind 
and  heart  thus  working,  to  put  a  space  between  herself  and 
that  closed  door. 

Just  then  Julius  March  crossed  the  room,  coming  in  from 
the  stair-head.  The  austere  lines  of  his  cassock  emphasised 
the  height  and  emaciation  of  his  figure.  His  appearance  of- 
fered a  marked  contrast  to  that  of  the  man  with  whom  Kath- 
erine  had  just  parted.  His  occupation  offered  a  marked  con- 
trast also.  He  carried  a  gold  chalice  and  paten,  and  his  head 
was  bowed  reverentially  above  the  sacred  vessels.  His  eyes 
were  downcast,  and  the  dull  pallor  of  his  face  and  his  long 
thin  hands  was  very  noticeable.  He  did  not  look  round,  but 
passed  silently,  still  as  a  dream,  into  the  chapel.  Katherine 
paced  the  width  of  the  great  room,  turned  and  paced  back 
and  forth  again  some  half-dozen  times,  before  he  emerged  from 
the  chapel  door.  In  her  present  humour  she  did  not  want 
him,  yet  she  resented  his  abstraction.  The  physician  of  the 
soul,  like  the  physician  of  the  body,  appeared  to  her  lamen- 
tably devoid  of  power  to  sustain  and  give  comfort  at  the  pres- 
ent juncture. 

This,  it  so  happened,  was  one  of  those  days  when  the 
mystic  joy  of  his  priestly  office  held  Julius  March  forcibly. 
He  had  ministered  to  others,  and  his  own  soul  was  satisfied. 
His  expression  was  exalted,  his  short-sighted  eyes  were  alive 
with  inward  light.  Tired  and  worn,  there  was  still  a  remark- 
able suavity  in  his  bearing.  He  had  come  forth  from  the  holy 
of  holies,  and  the  vision  beheld  there  dwelt  with  him  yet. 

Meanwhile,  brooding  storm  sat  on  Katherine's  brow,  on 
her  lips,  dwelt  in  her  every  movement.  And  something  of  this 


THE  BREAKING  OF  DREAMS  153 

Julius  perceived,  for  his  devotion  to  her  was  intact,  as  was  his 
self-abnegation.  Throughout  all  these  years  he  had  never 
sought  to  approach  her  more  closely.  His  attitude  had  re- 
mained as  delicately  scrupulous,  untouched  by  worldliness,  or 
by  the  baser  part  of  passion,  as  in  the  first  hour  of  the  dis- 
covery of  his  love.  Her  near  presence  gave  him  exquisite 
pleasure;  but,  save  when  she  needed  his  assistance  in  some 
practical  matter,  he  refused  to  indulge  himself  bypassing  much 
time  in  her  society.  Abstinence  still  remained  his  rule  of  life. 
But  just  now,  strong  with  the  mystic  strength  of  his  late  min- 
istrations, and  perceiving  her  troubled  state,  he  permitted  him- 
self to  remain  and  pace  beside  her. 

"  You  have  been  out  all  day  ?  "  Katherine  said. 

''  Yes,  I  stayed  on  to  the  end  with  Rebecca  Light.  Thejr 
sent  for  me  early  this  morning.  She  passed  away  very  peace- 
fully in  that  little  attic  at  the  new  lodge  looking  out  into  the 
green  heart  of  the  woods." 

"  Ah  !  It's  simple  enough  to  die,"  Katherine  said,  "  being^ 
old.     The  difficult  thing  is  to  live,  being  still  young." 

^^  Has  my  absence  been  inconvenient  ?  Have  you  wanted 
me  ? "  Julius  asked. — Those  quiet  hours  spent  in  the  humble 
death-chamber  suddenly  appeared  to  him  as  an  act  of  possible 
selfishness. 

"  Oh  no  !  "  she  answered  bitterly.  "Why  should  I  want 
you  ?  Have  I  not  sent  Roger  and  Mary  away  ?  Am  I  not 
secretly  glad  dear  Marie  de  Mirancourt  is  just  sufficiently 
poorly  to  remain  in  her  room  ?  When  the  real  need  comes — 
one  learns  that  among  all  the  other  merciless  lessons — one  is 
best  by  oneself." 

For  a  while,  only  the  whisper  of  Lady  Calmady's  skirts,  the 
soft,  even  tread  of  feet  upon  the  thick  carpet.  Then  she  said^ 
almost  sharply  : — 

"  Dr.  Knott  is  with  Richard." 

"  Ah  !  I  understand,"  Julius  murmured. 

But  Lady  Calmady  took  up  his  words  with  a  certain  heat. 

"No,  you  do  not  understand.  You  none  of  you  under- 
stand, and  that  is  why  I  am  better  by  myself.  Mary  and 
Roger  in  their  happiness,  dear  Marie  in  her  saintly  resignation, 
and  you  " — Katherine  turned  her  head,  smiled  at  him  in  lovely 
scorn — "  you,  my  dear  Julius,  of  all  men,  what  should  you 
know  of  the  bitter   pains    of  motherhood,  you    who  are  too 


154  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

good  to  be  quite  human,  you  who  regard  this  world  merely  as 
the  antichamber  of  paradise,  you,  whose  whole  affection  is 
«et  on  your  Church — your  God — how  should  you  understand  ? 
Between  my  experience  and  yours  there  is  a  very  wide  interval. 
How  can  you  know  what  I  suffer — you  who  have  never  loved." 

Under  the  stress  of  her  excitement  Katherine's  pace  quick- 
ened. The  whisper  of  her  skirts  grew  to  a  soft  rush.  Julius 
kept  beside  her.  His  head  was  bent  reverently,  even  as  over 
the  sacred  vessels  he  had  so  lately  carried. 

"  I  too  have  loved,"  he  said  at  last. 

Katherine  stopped  short,  and  looked  at  him  incredulously. 

"  Really,  Julius  ?  "  she  said. 

Raising  his  head,  he  looked  back  at  her.  This  avowal  gave 
him  a  strange  sense  of  completeness  and  mastery.  So  he  al- 
lowed his  eyes  to  meet  Katherine's,  he  allowed  himself  to 
reckon  with  her  grace  and  beauty. 

*'  Very  really,"  he  answered. 

"  But  when  ?  " 

"  Long  ago — and  always." 

"  Ah  !  "  she  said.  Her  expression  had  changed.  Brooding 
«torm  no  longer  sat  on  her  brow  and  lips.  She  was  touched. 
For  the  moment  the  weight  of  her  personal  distress  was  lifted. 
Dickie  and  Dr.  Knott  together  in  that  bedchamber,  experi- 
menting with  unlovely,  mechanical  devices  for  aiding  locomo- 
tion and  concealing  the  humiliation  of  deformity,  were  almost 
forgotten.  To  those  who  have  once  loved,  love  must  always 
supremely  appeal.  Julius  appeared  to  her  in  a  new  aspect. 
She  felt  she  had  done  him  injustice.  She  placed  her  hand  on 
his  arm  with  a  movement  of  apology  and  tenderness.  And 
the  man  grew  faint,  trembled,  feeling  her  hand;  seeing  it  lie 
white  and  fair  on  the  sleeve  of  his  black  cassock.  Sin,ce  child- 
hood it  was  the  first,  the  solitary  caress  he  had  received. 

"  Pardon  me,  dear  Julius,"  she  said.  "  I  must  have  pained 
you  at  times,  but  I  did  not  know  this.  I  always  supposed  you 
coldly  indifferent  to  those  histories  of  the  heart  which  mean 
so  much  to  some  of  us;  supposed  your  religion  held  you 
wholly,  and  that  you  pitied  us  as  the  wise  pity  the  foolish, 
standing  above  them,  looking  down.  Richard  told  me  many 
things  about  you,  before  he  brought  me  home  here,  but  he 
never  told  me  this." 

"  Richard  never  knew  it,"  he  answered,  smiling.     Her  per- 


THE  BREAKING  OF  DREAMS  155 

feet  unconsciousness  at  once  calmed  and  pained  him.     He  had 
kept  his  secret,  all  these  years,  only  too  well. 

Katherine  turned  and  began  to  pace  again,  her  hands  clasped 
behind  her  h?.ck. 

"  But,  tell  me — tell  me,"  she  said.  "  You  can  trust  me, 
you  know.  I  will  never  speak  of  this  unless  you  speak. 
But  if  I  knew,  it  would  bring  us  nearer  together,  and  that 
would  be  comforting,  perhaps,  to  us  both.  Tell  me,  what  hap- 
pened ?  Did  she  know,  and  did  she  love  you  ?  She  must 
have  loved  you,  I  think.  Then  what  separated  you  ?  Did 
she  die  ?  " 

"  No,  thank  God,  she  did  not  die,"  Julius  said.  He  paused^ 
He  longed  to  gain  the  relief  of  fuller  confession,  yet  feared  to- 
betray  himself.  "  I  believe  she  loved  me  truly  as  a  friend — 
and  that  was  sufficient." 

"  Oh  no,  no  !  "  Katherine  cried.  "  Do  not  decline  upon 
sophistries.     That  is  never  sufficient." 

"  In  one  sense,  yes — in  another  sense,  no,"  Julius  said.  ^*'  It 
was  thus.  I  loved  her  exactly  as  she  was.  Had  she  loved 
me  as  I  loved  her  she  would  have  become  other  than  she  was." 

"  Ah !  but  surely  you  are  too  ingenious,  too  fastidious." 
Katherine's  voice  took  tones  of  delicate  remonstrance  and 
pleading.  ''  That  would  be  your  danger,  in  such  a  case.  Le 
mieux  est  fetiJiemi  du  hien^  and  you  would  always  risk  sacrifi- 
cing the  real  to  the  ideal.  I  am  sorry.  I  would  like  you  to 
have  tasted  the  fulness  of  life.  Even  though  the  days  of 
perfect  joy  are  very  few,  it  is  well  to  have  had  them " 

She  threw  back  her  head,  her  eyebrows  drew  together,  and 
her  face  darkened  somewhat. 

"Yes,  it  is  well  to  have  had  them,  though  the  memory  of 
them  cuts  one  to  the  very  quick." — Then  her  manner  changed 
again,  gaining  a  touch  of  gaiety.  "  Really  I  am  very  unselfish 
in  wishing  all  this  otherwise,"  she  said,  "  for  it  would  have 
been  a  sore  trial  to  part  with  you.  I  cannot  imagine  Brock- 
hurst  without  you.  I  should  have  been  m  great  straits 
deprived  of  my  friend  and  counselor.  And  yet,  I  would  like 
you  to  have  been  very  happy,  dear  Julius." 

Their  pacing  had  just  brought  them  to  the  arched  doorway 
of  the  chapel.  Katherine  stopped,  and  raising  her  arm  leaned 
her  hand  against  the  stone  jamb  of  it  above  her  head. 

"  See,"  she  went  on,  "  I  want  to  be  truly  unselfish.     I  know^ 


156  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

how  generous  you  are.  Perhaps  you  remain  here  out  of  all 
too  great  kindness  towards  my  poor  Dick  and  me.  You 
mustn't  do  that,  Julius.  You  say  she  is  still  living.  Consider 
— is  it  too  late  ? '' 

Was  it  indeed  too  late  ?  All  the  frustrated  manhood  cried 
aloud  in  Julius  March.  He  covered  his  face  with  his  hands. 
His  carefully  restrained  imagination  ran  riot,  presenting  en- 
chantments. 

And  Katherine,  watching  him,  found  herself  strangely 
moved,  p'or  it  was  very  startling  to  see  this  so  familiar  figure 
under  so  unfamiliar  an  aspect — to  see  Julius  March,  her  every- 
day companion  and  assistant,  his  reticence,  his  priestly  aloof- 
ness, his  mild  and  courtly  calm,  swept  under  by  a  tide  of 
personal  emotion.  Lady  Calmady  was  drawn  to  him  by  deep- 
ened sympathy.  Yet  regret  arose  in  her  that  this  man  proved 
to  be,  after  all,  but  as  other  men.  She  was  vaguely  disap- 
pointed, having  derived  more  security  than  she  had  quite 
realised  from  his  apparent  detachment  and  impassibility.  And, 
as  an  indirect  consequence,  her  revolt  against  God  sufFeredf 
access  of  bitterness.  For  not  only  was  He — to  her  seeing — 
callous  regarding  the  fate  of  the  many,  but  He  failed  to  sup- 
port those  few  most  devoted  to  His  cause.  In  the  hour  of 
their  trial  He  was  careless  even  of  His  own  elect. 

"Ah!  I  think  it  is  indeed  by  no  means  too  late  !  "  she 
exclaimed. 

Julius  March  let  his  hands  drop  at  his  sides.  He  gazed  at 
her  and  her  expression  was  of  wistful  mockery — compassionate 
rather  than  ironical.  Then  he  looked  away  down  the  length 
of  the  chapel.  In  the  warm  afternoon  light,  the  solid  and  rich 
brown  of  the  arcaded  stalls  on  either  hand,  emphasised  the 
Harmonious  radiance  of  the  great  east  window,  a  radiance  as 
of  clear  jewels. — Ranks  of  kneeling  saints,  the  gold  of  whose 
aureoles  rose  in  an  upward  curve  to  the  majestic  image  of  the 
Christ  in  the  central  light — a  Christ  risen  and  glorified, 
enthroned.  His  feet  shining  forever  upon  heaven's  sapphire 
floor.  Before  the  altar  hung  three  silver-gilt  lamps  of  Italian 
workmanship,  in  the  crimson  cup  of  each  of  which  it  had  so 
Jong  been  Julius's  pleasure  to  keep  the  tongue  of  flame  con- 
stantly alive.  The  habits  of  a  lifetime  are  not  hastily  set 
aside.  Gazing  on  these  things,  his  normal  attitude  returned 
to  him.     Not  that  which  he  essentially  was  but  that  which,  by 


THE  BREAKING  OF  DREAMS  157 

long  and  careful  training  of  every  thought,  every  faculty,  he 
had  become,  authoritatively  claimed  him.  His  eyes  fell  from 
contemplation  of  the  glories  of  the  window  to  that  of  the  long^ 
straight  folds  of  the  cassock  which  clothed  him.  It  was  hardly 
the  garb  in  which  a  man  goes  forth  to  woo  !  Then  he  looked 
at  Lady  Calmady — she  altogether  seductive  in  her  innocence 
and  in  her  wistful  mockery  as  she  leaned  against  the  jamb  of 
the  door. 

"  You  are  mistaken,  dear  Katherine,*'  he  said.  "  It  has 
always  been  too  late." 

^^  But  why — why— if  she  is  free  to  listen  ?  " 

"  Because  I  am  not  free  to  speak." 

Julius  smiled  at  her.  His  suavity  had  returned,  and  along 
with  it  a  dignity  of  bearing  not  observable  before. 

"  Let  us  walk,"  he  said.  And  then  : — "  After  all  I  have 
given  you  a  very  mutilated  account  of  this  matter.  Soon  after 
I  took  orders,  before  I  had  ever  seen  the  very  noble,  to  me 
perfect,  woman  who  unconsciously  revealed  to  me  the  glory 
of  human  love,  I  had  dedicated  my  life,  and  all  my  powers — 
poor  enough,  I  fear — of  mind  and  body  to  the  service  of  the 
Church.  I  was  ambitious  in  those  days.  Ambition  is  deady 
killed  by  the  knowledge  of  my  own  shortcomings.  I  have 
proved  an  unprofitable  servant — for  which  may  God  in  His 
great  mercy  forgive  me.  But,  while  my  faith  in  myself  has 
withered,  my  faith  in  Him  has  come  to  maturity.  I  have 
learned  to  think  very  differently  on  many  subjects,  and  ta 
perceive  that  our  Heavenly  Father's  purposes  regarding  us  are 
more  generous,  more  far-reaching,  more  august,  than  in  my 
youthful  ignorance  I  had  ever  dreamed.  All  things  are  lawful 
in  His  sight.  Nothing  is  common  or  unclean — if  we  have 
once  rightly  apprehended  Him,  and  He  dwells  in  us.  And 
yet — yet,  a  vow  once  made  is  binding.  We  may  not  do  evil 
to  gain  however  great  a  good." 

Katherine  listened  in  silence.  The  words  came  with  the 
power  of  immutable  conviction.  She  could  not  believe,  yet 
she  was  glad  to  have  him  believe. 

"  And  that  vow  precludes  marriage  ?  "  she  said  at  last. 

"  It  does,"  Julius  answered. 

For  a  time  they  paced  again  in  silence.  Then  Lady  Calmady 
spoke,  a  delicate  intimacy  and  affection  in  her  manner,  while 
once  more,  for  a  moment,  she  let  her  hand  rest  on  his  arm. 


158  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

"  So  Brockhurst  keeps  you — I  keep  you,  dear  Julius,  to  the 
last  ?  " 

"Yes,  if  you  will,  to  the  very  last." 

''  I  am  thankful  for  that,"  she  said.  "  You  must  forgive 
me  if  in  the  past  I  have  been  inconsiderate  at  times.  I  am 
afraid  the  constant  struggle,  w^hich  certain  circumstances  of 
necessity  create,  tends  to  make  me  harsh  and  imperious.  I 
carry  a  trouble,  w^hich  calls  aloud  for  redress,  forever  in  my 
arms.  They  ache  with  the  burden  of  it.  And  there  is  no 
redress.  And  the  trouble  grows  stronger  alas.  Its  voice — so 
dear,  yet  so  dreaded — grows  louder,  till  it  deafens  me  to  all 
other  sounds.  The  music  of  this  once  beautiful  world  be- 
comes faint.  Only  angry  discord  remains.  And  I  become 
selfish.  I  am  the  victim  of  a  fixed  idea.  I  become  heedless 
of  the  suffering  of  those  about  me.  And  you,  my  poor  Julius, 
must  have  suffered  very  much  '  " 

"  Now,  less  than  ever  before,"  he  answered.  But  even  as 
he  spoke,  Katherine  was  struck  by  his  pallor,  by  the  drawn 
look  of  his  features  and  languor  of  his  bearing. 

"  Ah,  you  have  fasted  all  day !  "  she  cried. 

"  What  matter  ?  "  he  said,  smiling.  "  The  body  surely  can 
sustain  a  trifle  of  hunger,  if  the  soul  and  spirit  are  fed.  I 
have  feasted  royally  to-day  in  that  respect.  I  am  strangely 
at   ease.     As  to  baser  sort  of  food,  what   wonder  if  I  for- 

The  door  of  Dickie's  bedchamber  opened,  letting  in  long 
shafts  of  sunlight,  and  Dr.  Knott  came  slowly  forward.  His 
aspect  was  savage.  Even  his  philosophy  had  been  not  wholly 
proof  against  the  pathos  of  his  patient's  case.  It  irritated  him 
to  fall  from  his  usual  relentlessness  of  common  sense  into  a 
melting  mood.  He  took  refuge  in  sarcasm,  desirous  to  detect 
weakness  in  others,  since  he  was,  unwillingly,  so  disagreeably 
conscious  of  it  in  himself. 

"  Well,  we're  through  with  our  business,  Lady  Calmady," 
he  said.  "Eh!  Mr.  March,  what's  wrong  with  you? 
Putty-coloured  skin  and  shortness  of  breath.  A  little  less 
prayer  and  a  little  more  physical  exercise  is  what  you  want. 
Successful,  Lady  Calmady  ? — Umph — I'm  afraid  the  less  said 
about  that  the  better.  Sir  Richard  will  talk  it  out  with  you 
himself.  Upset  ?  Yes,  I  don't  deny  he  is  a  little  upset — 
and,  like  a  fool,  I'm  upset  too.     You  can  go  to  him  now, 


THE  BREAKING  OF  DREAMS  159 

Lady  Calmady.  Keep  him  cheerful,  please,  and  give  him  his 
head  as  much  as  you  can." 

John  Knott  watched  her  as  she  moved  away.  He  shrugged 
his  shoulders  and  thrust  his  hands  into  his  breeches'  pockets. 

"She's  going  to  hear  what  she  won't  much  relish,  poor 
thing,"  he  said.  "  But  I  can't  help  that.  One  man's  meat 
is  another  man's  poison  ;  and  my  affair  is  with  the  boy's  meat, 
even  if  it  should  be  of  a  kind  to  turn  his  mother's  stomach. 
He  shall  have  just  all  the  chance  I  can  get  him,  poor  little 
chap.  And  now,  Mr.  March,  I  propose  to  prescribe  for  you, 
for  you  look  uncommonly  like  taking  a  short-cut  to  heaven, 
and,  if  I  know  anything  about  this  house,  you've  got  your 
woik  cut  out  for  you  here  below  for  a  long  time  to  come. 
Through  with  this  business?  Pooh  !  we've  only  taken  a  pre- 
liminary canter  as  yet.  That  boy's  out  of  the  common  in 
more  ways  tha/i  one,  and,  cripple  or  no  cripple,  he's  bound  to 
lead  you  all  a  pretty  lively  dance  before  he's  done." 


CHAPTER  VII 

AN    ATTEMPT   TO    MAKE    THE    BEST   OF   IT 

^TpHE  day  ltd  been  hot,  though  the  summer  was  but  young. 
"*^  A  wealth  of  steady  sunlight  bathed  the  western  front 
of  the  house.  All  was  notably  still,  save  for  a  droning  of 
bees,  a  sound  )f  wood-chopping,  voices  now  and  again,  and 
the  squeak  of  a  wheelbarrow  away  in  the  gardens. 

Richard  lay  on  his  back  upon  the  bed.  He  had  drawn  the 
blue  embroidered  coverlet  up  about  his  waist;  but  his  silk 
shirt  was  thrown  open,  exposing  his  neck  and  chest.  His 
arms  were  flung  up  and  out  across  the  pillow  on  either  side 
his  gold-brown,  clo^e-curled  head.  As  his  mother  entered  he 
turned  his  face  towards  the  open  window.  There  was  vigour 
and  distinction  in  the  profile — in  the  straight  nose,  full  chin, 
and  strong  line  of  the  lower  jaw,  in  the  round,  firm  throat, 
and  small  ear  set  close  against  the  head.  The  muscles  of  his 
neck  and  arms  were  well  developed.  Seen  thus,  lying  in  the 
quiet  glow  of  the  afternoon  sunshine,  all  possibility  of  physical 
disgrace    seemed    far   enough    from    Richard    Calmady.     He 


i6o  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

might  indeed,  not  unfitly,  have  been  compared  to  one  of  those 
nobly  graceful  lads,  who,  upon  the  frieze  of  some  Greek 
temple,  set  forth  forever  the  perfect  pattern  of  temperance 
and  high  courage,  of  youth  and  health. 

As  Katherine  sat  down  beside  the  bed,  Richard  thrust  out 
his  left  hand.  She  took  it  in  both  hers,  held  and  stroked  the 
palm  of  it.  But  for  a  time  she  could  not  trust  herself  to 
speak.  For  she  saw  that,  notwithstanding  the  resolute  set  of 
his  lips,  his  breath  caught  in  short  quick  sobs  and  that  his  eye- 
lashes were  glued  in  points  by  late  shed  tears.  And  seeing 
this,  Katherine's  motherhood  arose  and  confronted  her  with 
something  of  reproach.  It  seemed  to  her  she  had  been  guilty 
of  disloyalty  in  permitting  her  thought  to  be  beguiled  even 
for  the  brief  space  of  her  conversation  with  Julius  March. 
She  felt  humbled,  a  little  in  Dickie's  debt,  since  she  had  not 
realised  to  the  uttermost  each  separate  moment  of  his  trial  as 
each  of  those  moments  passed. 

"  My  darling,  I  am  afraid  Dr.  Knott  has  hurt  you  very 
much,"  she  said  at  last. 

"  Oh  !  I  don't  know.  I  suppose  he  did  hurt.  He  pulled 
me  about  awfully,  but  I  didn't  mind  that.  I  told  him  to  keep 
on  till  he  made  sure,"  Richard  answered  huskily,  still  turning 
his  face  from  her.  "  But  none  of  those  beastly  legs  and 
things  fitted.  He  could  not  fix  them  so  that  I  could  use 
them.  It  was  horrid.  They  only  made  me  more  helpless  than 
before.     You  see — my — my  feet  are  in  the  way." 

The  last  words  came  to  Katherine  as  a  shock.  The  boy 
had  never  spoken  openly  of  his  deformity,  and  in  thus  speak- 
ing he  appeared  to  her  to  rend  asunder  the  last  of  those  veils 
with  which  she  had  earnestly  striven  to  conceal  the  disgrace 
of  it  from  him.  She  remained  very  still,  bracing  herself  to 
bear — the  while  slowly  stroking  his  hand.  Suddenly  the 
strong,  young  fingers  closed  hard  on  hers.  Richard  turned 
his  head. 

"Mother,"  he  said,  "the  doctor  can't  do  anything  for  me. 
It's  no  use.     We've  just  got  to  let  it  be." 

He  set  his  teeth,  choking  a  little,  and  drew  the  back  of 
Jiis  right  hand  across  his  eyes. 

"It's  awfully  stupid;  but  somehow  I  never  knew  I  should 
mind  so  much.  I — I  never  did  mind  much  till  just  lately.  It 
foegan — the   minding,   I   mean — the   day    Uncle   Roger  came 


THE  BREAKING  OF  DREAMS  i6i 

home.  It  was  the  way  he  looked  at  me,  and  hearing  about 
things  he'd  done.  And  I  had  a  beastly  dream  that  night. 
And  it's  all  grown  worse  since." 

He  paused  a  minute,  making  a  strong  effort  to  speak 
steadily. 

^'  I  suppose  it's  silly  to  mind.  I  ought  to  be  accustomed  ta 
it  by  this  time.  I've  never  known  anything  else.  But  I 
never  thought  of  all  it  meant  and — and — how  it  looked  to 
other  people  till  Helen  was  here  and  wanted  me  to  show  her 
the  house.  I — I  supposed  every  one  would  take  it  for  granted,, 
as  you  all  do  here  at  home.  And  then  I'd  a  hope  Dr.  Knott 
might  find  a  way  to  hide  it  and  so  help  me.  But — but  he 
can't.     That  hope's  quite  gone." 

"  My  own  darling,"  Katherine  murmured. 

"Yes,  please  say  that!  "  he  cried,  looking  up  eagerly.  "I 
am  your  darling,  mother,  aren't  I,  just  the  same  ?  Dr.  Knott 
said  something  about  you  just  now.  He's  an  awfully  fine  old 
chap.  I  like  him.  He  talked  to  me  for  a  long  time  after 
we'd  sent  Winter  away,  and  he  was  ever  so  kind.  And  he 
told  me  it  was  bad  for  you  too,  you  know — for  both  of  us. 
I'm  afraid  I  had  not  thought  much  about  that  before.  I've 
been  thinking  about  it  since.  And  I  began  to  be  afraid  that— 
that  I  might  be  a  nuisance, — that  you  might  be  ashamed  of 
me,  later,  when  I  am  grown  up,  since  I've  always  got  to  be 
like  this,  you  see." 

The  boy's  voice  broke. 

"  Mother,  mother,  you'll  never  despise  me,  who  ever  does^ 
will  you  ?  "  he  sobbed. 

And  it  seemed  to  Lady  Calmady  that  now  she  must  have 
touched  bottom  in  this  tragedy.  There  could  surely  be  no 
further  to  go  ?  It  was  well  that  her  mood  was  soft ;  that  for 
a  little  while  she  had  ceased  to  be  under  the  dominion  of  her 
so  sadly  fixed  idea.  In  talking  with  Julius  March  she  had 
been  reminded  how  constant  a  quantity  is  sorrow  ;  hov/  real,^ 
notwithstanding  their  silence,  are  many  griefs;  how  strong  is 
human  patience.  And  this  indirectly  had  fortified  her. 
Wrung  with  anguish  for  the  boy,  she  yet  was  calm.  She 
knelt  down  by  the  bedside  and  put  her  arms  round  him. 

"  Most  precious  one — listen,"  she  said.  "  You  must  never 
ask  me  such  a  question  again.  I  am  your  mother — you  can- 
not measure  all  that  implies,  and  so  you  cannot  measure  the 


i62  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

pain  your  question  causes  me.  Only  you  must  believe,  be- 
cause I  tell  it  you,  that  your  mother's  love  w^ill  never  grow 
old  or  vi^ear  thin.  It  is  always  there,  always  fresh,  always 
ready.  In  utter  security  you  can  come  back  to  it  again  and 
again.  It  is  like  one  of  those  clear  springs  in  the  secret 
places  of  the  deep  woods — you  know  them — which  bubble  up 
forever.  Drink,  often  as  you  may,  however  heavy  the  drought 
or  shrunken  the  streams  elsewhere,  those  springs  remain  full 
to  the  very  lip." — Her  tone  changed,  taking  a  tender  play- 
fulness. "Why,  my  Dickie,  you  are  the  light  of  my  eyes, 
my  darling,  the  one  thing  which  makes  me  still  care  to  live. 
You  are  your  father's  gift  to  me.  And  so  every  kiss  you  give 
me,  every  pretty  word  you  say  to  me,  is  treasured  up  for  his, 
as  well  as  for  your  own,  dear  sake." 

She  leaned  back,  laid  her  head  on  the  pillow  beside  his, 
cheek  to  cheek.  Katherine  was  a  young  woman  still — ^young 
enough  to  have  moments  of  delicate  shyness  in  the  presence  of 
lier  son.     She  could  not  look  at  him  now  as  she  spoke. 

^^  You  know,  dearest,  if  I  could  take  your  bodily  misfortune 
upon  me,  here,  directly,  and  give  you  my  wholeness,  I  would 
do  it  more  readily,  with  greater  thankfulness  and  delight  than 
I  have  ever  done  anything  in " 

But  Richard  raised  his  hand  and  laid  it,  almost  violently, 
upon  her  mouth. 

"Oh  stop,  mother,  stop!"  he  cried.  "Don't — it's  too 
dreadful  to  think  of." 

He  flung  away,  and  lay  at  as  far  a  distance  as  the  width  of 
the  bed  would  allow,  gazing  at  her  in  angry  protest. 

"  You  can't  do  that.  But  you  don't  suppose  I'd  let  you  do 
it  even  if  you  could,"  he  said  fiercely.  Then  he  turned  his  face 
to  the  sunny  western  window  again.  '^  I  like  to  know  that 
you're  beautiful  anyhow,  mother,  all — all  over,"  he  said. 

There  followed  a  long  silence  between  them.  Lady  Cal- 
mady  still  knelt  by  the  bedside.  But  she  drew  herself  up, 
rested  her  elbows  on  the  bed  and  clasped  her  hands  under  her 
chin.  And  as  she  knelt  there  something  of  proud  comfort 
came  to  her.  For  so  long  she  had  sickened,  fearing  the  hour 
when  Richard  should  begin  clearly  to  gauge  the  extent  of  his 
own  ill-luck  ;  yet,  now  the  first  shock  of  plain  speech  over, 
she  experienced  relief.  For  the  future  they  could  be  honest, 
she    and  he, — so   she    thought, — and    speak    heart    to  heart. 


THE  BREAKING  OF  DREAMS  163: 

Moreover,  in  his  so  bitter  distress,  it  was  to  her — not  to  Mary,, 
his  good  comrade,  not  to  Roger  Ormiston,  the  Ulysses  of  his 
fancy — that  the  boy  had  turned.  He  was  given  back  to  her,, 
and  she  was  greatly  gladdened  by  that.  She  was  gladdened  too- 
by  Richard's  last  speech,  by  his  angry  and  immediate  repudia- 
tion  of  the  bare  mention  of  any  personal  gain  which  should 
touch  her  with  loss.  Katherine's  eyes  kindled  as  she  knelt 
there  watching  her  son.  For  it  was  very  much  to  find  him 
chivalrous,  hotly  sensitive  of  her  beauty  and  the  claims  of  her 
womanhood.  In  instinct,  in  thought,  in  word,  he  had  showm 
himself  a  very  gallant,  high-bred  gentleman — child  though  he 
was.  And  this  gave  Katherine  not  only  proud  comfort  in  the 
present,  but  cheered  the  future  with  hope. 

"  Look  here,  Dickie,  darling,*'  she  said  softly  at  last,  "  tell 
me  a  little  more  about  your  talk  with  Dr.  Knott." 

"  Oh !  he  was  awfully  kind,"  Richard  answered,  turning 
towards  her  again,  while  his  face  brightened,  "  He  said  some 
awfully  jolly  things  to  me." 

The  boy  put  out  his  hand  and  began  playing  with  the 
bracelets  on  Katherine's  wrists.  He  kept  his^  eyes  fixed  on 
them  as  he  fino-ered  them. 

o 

"  He  told  me  I  was  very  strong  and  well  made — except,  of 
course,  for  it.  And  that  I  was  not  to  imagine  myself  ill  or 
invalidy,  because  I'm  really  less  ill  than  most  people,  you 
know.  And — he  said — you  won't  think  me  foolish,  mother^ 
if  I  tell  you  ? — he  said  I  was  a  very  handsome  fellow." 

Richard  glanced  up  quickly,  while  his  colour  deepened. 

"  Am  I  really  handsome  ?  "  he  asked. 

Katherine  smiled  at  him. 

"  Yes,  you  are  very  handsome,  Dickie.  You  have  always 
been  that.  You  were  a  beautiful  baby,  a  beautiful'  little  child. 
And  now,  every  day  you  grow  more  like  your  father.  I  can't 
quite  talk  about  him,  my  dear — but  ask  Uncle  Roger,  ask 
Marie  de  Mirancourt  what  he  was  when  she  knew  him  first.'* 

The  boy's  face  flashed  back  her  smile,  as  the  sea  does  the 
sunlight. 

"  Oh  !  I  say,  but  that's  good  news,"  he  said.  He  lay  quite 
still  on  his  back  for  a  little  while,  thinking  about  it. 

"That  seems  to  give  one  a  shove, you  know,"  he  remarked 
presently.  Then  he  fell  to  playing  with  her  bracelets  again. 
"  After  all,  I've  got  a  good  many  shoves  to-day,  mother.     Dr^ 


i64  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

Knott's  a  regular  champion  shover.  He  told  me  about  a 
number  of  people  he'd  known  who  had  got  smashed  up  some- 
how, or  who'd  always  had  something  wrong,  you  know — and 
how  they'd  put  a  good  face  on  it  and  hadn't  let  it  interfere, 
but  had  done  things  just  the  same.  And  he  told  me  I'd  just 
got  to  be  plucky — he  knew  I  could  if  I  tried — and  not  let  it 
interfere  either.  He  told  me  I  mustn't  be  soft,  or  lazy,  be- 
cause doing  things  is  more  difficult  for  me  than  for  other  peo- 
ple. But  that  I'd  just  got  to  put  my  back  into  it,  and  go  in 
and  win.  And  I  told  him  I  would — and  you'll  help  me, 
mummy,  won't  you  ?  '* 

"Yes,  darling,  yes,"  Lady  Calmady  said. 

"I  want  to  begin  at  once,"  he  went  on  hurriedly,  looking 
hard  at  the  bracelets.  "  I  shouldn't  like  to  be  unkind  to  her, 
mother,  but  do  you  think  Clara  would  give  me  up  ?  I  don't 
need  a  nurse  now.  It's  rather  silly.  May  one  of  the  men- 
servants  valet  me  ?  I  should  like  Winter  best,  because  he's 
been  here  always,  and  I  shouldn't  feel  shy  with  him.  Would 
it  bore  you  awfully  to  speak  about  that  now,  so  that  he  might 
begin  to-night  ?  " 

Lady  Calmady's  brave  smile  grew  a  trifle  sad.  The  boy 
■was  less  completely  given  back  to  her  than  she  had  fondly  sup- 
posed. This  day  was  after  all  to  introduce  a  new  order.  And 
the  woman  always  pays.  She  was  to  pay  for  that  advance,  so 
was  the  devoted  handmaiden,  Clara.  Still  the  boy  must  have 
his  way — were  it  even  towards  a  merely  imagined  good. 

"*' Very  well,  dearest,  I  will  settle  it,"  she  answered. 

**  You  won't  mind,  though,  mother  ?  " 

Katherine  stroked  the  short  curly  hair  back  from  his  fore- 
head. 

"  I  don't  mind  anything  that  promises  to  make  you  happier, 
Dickie,"  she  said.  "  What  else  did  you  and  Dr.  Knott  settle 
— anything  else  ?  " 

Richard  waited,  then  he  turned  on  his  elbow  and  looked  full 
and  very  earnestly  at  her. 

"  Yes,  mother,  we  did  settle  something  more.  And  some- 
thing that  I'm  afraid  you  won't  like.  But  it  would  make  me 
happier  than  anything  else — It  would  make  all  the  difference 
that — that  can  be  made,  you  know." 

He  paused,  his  expression  very  firm  though  his  lips  quiv- 
ered. 


THE  BREAKING  OF  DREAMS  165 

"  Dr.  Knott  wants  me  to  ride." 

Katherine  drew  back,  stood  up  straight,  threw  out  her 
hands  as  though  to  keep  off  some  actual  and  tangible  object  of 
offense. 

"  Not  that,  Richard,"  she  cried.  "  Anything  in  the  world 
rather  than  that." 

He  looked  at  her  imploringly,  yet  with  a  certain  determina- 
tion, for  the  child  was  dying  fast  in  him  and  the  forceful  desires 
and  intentions  of  youth  growing. 

"  Don't  say  1  mustn't,  mother.  Pray,  pray  don't,  be- 
cause   " 

He  left  the  sentence  unfinished,  overtaken  by  the  old  habit 
of  obedience,  yet  he  did  not  lower  his  eyes. 

But  Lady  Calmady  made  no  response.  For  the  moment  she 
was  outraged  to  the  point  of  standing  apart,  even  from  her 
child.  For  a  moment,  even  motherhood  went  down  before 
purely  personal  feeling — and  this,  by  the  irony  of  circum- 
stance, immediately  after  motherhood  had  made  supreme  con- 
fession of  immutability.  But  remembering  her  husband's 
death,  remembering  the  source  of  all  her  child's  misfortune,  it 
appeared  to  her  indecent,  a  wanton  insult  to  all  her  past  suf- 
fering, that  such  a  proposition  should  be  made  to  her.  And,, 
in  a  flash  of  cruelly  vivid  perception,  she  knew  how  the  boy 
would  look  on  a  horse,  the  grotesque,  to  the  vulgar,  wholly 
absurd  spectacle  he  must,  notwithstanding  his  beauty,  neces- 
sarily present.  For  a  moment  the  completeness  of  love  failed 
before  pride  touched  to  the  very  quick. 

"  But,  how  can  you  ride  ?  "  she  said.  "  My  poor  child^ 
think — how  is  it  possible  ?  " 

Richard  sat  upright,  pressing  his  hands  down  on  the  bed- 
clothes on  either  side  to  steady  himself.  The  colour  rushed 
over  his  face  and  throat. 

"  It  is  possible,  mother,"  he  answered  resolutely,  ^'  or  Dr. 
Knott  would  never  have  talked  about  it.  He  couldn't  have 
been  so  unkind.  He  drew  me  the  plan  of  a  saddle.  He  said 
1  was  to  show  it  to  Uncle  Roger  to-night.  Of  course  it 
won't  be  easy  at  first,  but  I  don't  care  about  that.  And 
Chifney  would  teach  me.  I  know  he  would.  He  said  the 
other  day  he'd  make  a  sportsman  of  me  yet." 

*^When  did  you  talk  with  Chifney?"  Lady  Calmady 
spoke  very  quietly,  but  there  was  that  in  her  tone  which  came 


i66  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

near  frightening  the  boy.     It  required  all  his  daring  to  answer 
honestly  and  at  once. 

"  I  talked  to  him  the  day  Aunt  Ella  and  Helen  were  here. 
J — I  went  down  to  the  stables  with  him  and  saw  all  the 
horses." 

"  Then  either  you  or  he  did  very  wrong,"  Lady  Calmady 
remarked. 

"  It  was  my  fault,  mother,  all  my  fault.  Chifney  would 
have  ridden  on,  but  I  stopped  him.  Chaplin  tried  to  prevent 
me.  I — I  told  him  to  mind  his  own  business.  I  meant  to 
go.  I — I  saw  all  the  horses,  and  they  were  splendid,"  he 
added,  enthusiasm  gaining  over  fear.  "  I  saw  the  stables,  and 
the  weighing-room,  and  everything.  I  never  enjoyed  myself 
^o  much  before.  I  told  Chaplin  I  would  tell  you,  because  he 
ought  not  to  be  blamed,  you  know.  I  did  mean  to  tell  you 
^directly  I  came  in.  But  all  those  people  were  here." — Rich- 
ard's face  darkened.  "  And  you  remember  what  happened  ? 
That  put  everything  else  out  of  my  head." 

A  pause.     Then  he  said  :     "  Are  you  very  angry  ?  " 

Katherine  made  no  reply.  She  moved  away  round  the  foot 
of  the  bed  and  stood  at  the  sunny  window  in  silence.  Bitter- 
ness of  hot  humiliation  possessed  her.  Heretofore,  whatever 
her  trial,  she  had  been  mistress  of  the  situation ;  she  had 
reigned  a  queen-mother,  her  authority  undisputed.  And  now 
it  appeared  her  kingdom  was  in  revolt,  conspiracy  was  rife. 
Richard's  will  and  hers  were  in  conflict ;  and  Richard's  will 
tnust  eventually  obtain,  since  he  would  eventually  be  master. 
Already  courtiers  bowed  to  that  will.  All  this  was  in  her 
mind.  And  a  wounding  of  feeling,  far  deeper  and  more  inti- 
mate than  this, — since  Katherine's  nobility  of  character  was 
great  and  the  worldly  aspect,  the  greed  of  personal  power  and 
undisputed  rule,  could  not  affect  her  for  long.  It  wounded 
her,  as  a  slight  upon  the  memory  of  the  man  she  had  so 
wholly  loved,  that  this  first  conflict  between  Richard  and  her- 
:self  should  turn  on  the  question  of  horses  and  the  racing- 
stable.  The  irony  of  the  position  appeared  unpardonable. 
And  then,  the  vision  of  poor  Richard — her  darling,  whom  she 
had  striven  so  jealously  to  shield  ever  since  the  day,  over  thir- 
teen years  ago,  when  undressing  her  bsby  she  had  first  looked 
upon  its  malformed  limbs — Richard  riding  forth  for  all  the 
staring,  mocking  world  to  see,  again  arose  before  her. 


THE  BREAKING  OF  DREAMS  167 

Thinking  of  all  this,  Katherinc  gazed  out  over  the  stately- 
home  scene — grass  plot  and  gardens,  woodland  and  distant 
landscape,  rich  in  the  golden  splendour  of  steady  sunshine — 
with  smarting  eyes  and  a  sense  of  impotent  misery  that 
wrapped  her  about  as  a  burning  garm.ent.  The  boy  was  be- 
ginning to  go  his  own  way.  And  his  way  was  not  hers.. 
And  those  she  had  trusted  were  disloyal,  helping  him  to  go  it. 
Alone,  in  retirement,  she  had  borne  her  great  trouble  with 
tremendous  courage.  But  how  should  she  bear  it  under 
changed  conditions,  amid  publicity,  gossip,  comment  ? 

Dickie,  meanwhile,  had  let  himself  drop  back  against  the 
pillows.  He  set  his  teeth  and  waited.  It  was  hard.  An 
opportunity  of  escape  from  the  galling  restraints  of  his  in- 
firmity had  been  presented  to  him,  and  his  mother — his  mother 
after  promise  given,  after  the  sympathy  of  a  lifetime ;  his 
mother,  in  whom  he  trusted  absolutely — was  unwilling  he 
should  accept  it !  As  he  lay  there  all  the  desperate  longing 
for  freedom  and  activity  that  had  developed  in  him  of  late — 
all  the  passion  for  sport,  for  that  primitive,  half-savage  man- 
ner of  life,  that  intimate,  if  somewhat  brutal,  relation  to  na- 
ture, to  wild  creatures  and  to  the  beasts  whom  man  by  cen- 
turies of  usage  has  broken  to  his  service,  which  is  the  special 
heritage  of  Englishmen  of  gentle  blood — sprang  up  in  Rich- 
ard, strong,  all  compelling.  He  must  have  his  part  in  all  this.. 
He  would  not  be  denied.     He  cried  out  to  her  imperiously : — ► 

"  Mother,  speak  to  me  !  I  haven't  done  anything  really 
wrong.  I've  a  right  to  do  what  any  other  boy  has — as  far  as 
I  can  get  it.  Don't  you  see  riding  is  just  the  one  thing  to — 
to  make  up — to  make  a  man  of  me  ?     Don't  you  see  that  ?  '* 

He  sat  bolt  upright,  stretching  out  his  arms  to  her  in  fierce 
appeal,  while  the  level  sunshine  touched  his  bright  hair  and 
wildly  eager  face. 

"  Mummy,  mummy  darling,  don't  you  see  ?  Try  to  see^ 
You  can't  want  to  take  away  my  one  chance  ! " 

Katherine  turned  at  that  reiterated  cry,  and  her  heart  melted 
within  her.  The  boy  was  her  own,  bone  of  her  bone,  flesh 
of  her  flesh.  From  her  he  had  life.  From  her  he  had  also 
lifelong  disgrace  and  deprivation.  Was  there  anything  then^ 
which,  he  asking,  she  could  refuse  to  give  ?  She  cast  herself 
on  her  knees  beside  the  bed  again  and  buried  her  face  in  the 
sheet. 


i68  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

"My  precious  one,'*  she  sobbed,  "forgive  me.  I  am 
ashamed,  for  I  have  been  both  harsh  and  weak.  I  said  I 
would  help  you,  and  then  directly  I  fail  you.     Forgive  me." 

And  the  boy  was  amazed,  speechless  at  first,  seeing  her 
broken  thus ;  shamed  in  his  turn  by  the  humility  of  her  atti- 
tude. To  his  young  chivalry  it  was  as  an  impiety  to  look  upon 
her  tears. 

"  Please  don't  cry,  mother,"  he  entreated  tremulously,  a 
childlike  simplicity  of  manner  taking  him.  "  Don't  cry — it 
is  dreadful.  I  never  saw  you  cry  before." — Then,  after  a 
pause,  he  added  :  "  And — never  mind  about  my  riding.  I 
don't  so  very  much  care  about  it — really,  I  don't  believe  I  do 
—after  all." 

At  that  dear  lie  Katherine  raised  her  bowed  head,  a  wonder- 
ful sweetness  in  her  tear-stained  face,  tender  laughter  upon  her 
lips.  She  drew  the  boy's  hands  on  to  her  shoulders,  clasped 
her  hands  across  his  extended  arms,  and  kissed  him  upon  the 
mouth. 

'^  No,  no,  my  beloved,  you  shall  ride,"  she  said.  "  You 
shall  have  your  saddle — twenty  thousand  saddles  if  you  want 
them.  We  will  talk  to  Uncle  Roger  and  Chifney  to-night. 
All  shall  be  as  you  wish." 

"  But  you're  not  angry,  mother,  any  more  ?  "  he  asked,  a 
little  bewildered  by  her  change  of  tone  and  by  the  passion  of 
her  lovely  looks  and  speech. 

Katherine  shook  her  head,  and  still  that  tender  laughter 
curved  her  lips. 

"  No,  I  am  never  going  to  be  angry  any  more — with  you  at 
least,  Dick.  I  must  learn  to  be  plucky  too.  A  pair  of  us, 
Dickie,  trying  to  keep  up  one  another's  pluck  !  Only  let  us 
go  forward  hand  in  hand,  you  and  I,  and  then,  however  des- 
perate our  doings,  I  at  least  shall  be  content." 


THE  BREAKING  OF  DREAMS  169 


CHAPTER  Vni 

TELLING,  INCIDENTALLY,  OF    A  BROKEN-DOWN  POSTBOY 
AND    A    COUNTRY    FAIR 

'  I  ^HE  Brockhurst-mall  phaeton  waited.  In  the  shade  of  th^ 
three  large  sycamores,  before  Appleyard's  shop  at  Farley 
Row.  A  groom  stood  stiff  and  straight  at  the  horses'  headsc 
While  upon  the  high  driving-seat,  a  trifle  excited  by  the  sud- 
denness of  his  elevation,  sat  Richard.  He  held  the  reins  in 
his  right  hand,  and  stretched  his  left  to  get  the  cramp  out  of 
his  fingers.  His  arms  ached — there  was  no  question  about  it. 
He  had  never  driven  a  pair  before,  and  the  horses  needed  a 
lot  of  driving.  For  the  wind  was  gusty,  piling  up  heavy 
masses  of  black-purple  rain-cloud  in  the  southeast.  It  made 
the  horses  skittish  and  unsteady,  and  Dickie  found  it  was  just 
all  he  could  do  to  hold  them,  so  that  Chifney's  reiterated  ad- 
monition, "  Keep  'em  well  in  hand.  Sir  Richard,"  had  been 
not  wholly  easy  to  obey.  "^  j 

From  out  the  open  shop-door  came  mingled  odour  of  new 
leather  and  of  horse  clothing.  Within  Mr.  Chifney  delivered 
himself  of  certain  orders;  while  Appleyard — a  small,  fair  man, 
thin  of  nose,  a  spot  of  violent  colour  on  either  cheek-bone — 
skipped  before  him  goat-like,  in  a  fury  of  complacent  intelli- 
gence. For  it  was  not  every  day  so  notable  a  personage  as 
the  Brockhurst  trainer  crossed  his  threshold.  To  Josiah 
Appleyard,  indeed — not  to  mention  his  two  apprentices 
stretching  eyes  and  ears  from  the  back-shop,  to  catch  any 
chance  word  of  Mr.  Chifney's  conversation — it  appeared  as 
though  the  gods  very  really  condescended  to  visit  the  habita- 
tions of  men.  While  Mrs.  Appleyard,  peeping  from  behind 
the  wire  blind  of  the  parlour,  had — as  she  afterwards  repeat- 
edly declared — "  felt  her  insides  turn  right  over,"  vi^hen  she 
saw  the  carriage  draw  up.  The  conversation  was  prolonged 
and  low  toned.  For  the  order  was  of  a  peculiar  and  con- 
fidential character,  demanding  much  explanation  on  the  one 
part,  much  application    on  the  other.     It  was   an  ordei     in 


170  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

short,  wholly  flattering  to  the  self-esteem  of  the  saddler,  both 
as  tribute  to  his  social  discretion  and  his  technical  skill.  Thus 
did  Josiah  skip  goat-like,  being  glad. 

Meanwhile,  Richard  Calmady  waited  without,  resting  his 
aching  arms,  gazing  down  the  wide,  dusty  street,  his  senses 
lulled  by  the  flutter  of  the  sycamore  leaves  overhead.  The 
said  street  offered  but  small  matter  of  interest.  For  Farley 
Row  is  one  of  those  dead-alive  little  towns  on  the  borders  of 
the  forest  land,  across  which  progress,  even  at  the  time  in 
question,  1856,  had  written  Ichabod  in  capital  letters.  Dur- 
ing the  early  years  of  the  century  some  sixty  odd  coaches, 
plying  upon  the  London  and  Portsmouth  road,  would  stop  to 
change  horses  at  the  White  Lion  in  the  course  of  each  twenty- 
four  hours.  That  was  the  golden  age  of  the  Row.  Horns 
twanged,  heavy  wheels  rumbled,  steaming  teams  were  led 
away,  with  drooping  heads,  into  the  spacious  inn  yard,  and 
fresh  horses  stepped  out  cheerily  to  take  their  place  between 
the  traces.  The  next  stage  across  Spendle  Flats  was  known 
as  a  risky  one.  Legends  of  Claude  Duval  and  his  fellow- 
highwaymen  still  haunt  the  woods  and  moors  that  top  the  long 
hill  going  northward.  And  the  passengers  by  those  sixty 
coaches  were  wont  to  recover  themselves  from  terrors  escaped, 
or  fortify  themselves  against  terrors  to  come,  by  plentiful 
libations  at  the  bar  of  the  handsome  red-brick  inn.  The 
house  did  a  roaring  trade.  But  now  the  traffic  upon  the  great 
road  had  assumed  a  local  and  altogether  undemonstrative  char- 
acter. The  coaches  had  fallen  into  lumber,  the  spanking 
teams  had  each  and  all  made  their  squalid  last  journey  to  the 
knacker's ;  and  the  once  famous  Gentlemen  of  the  Road  had 
long  lain  at  rest  in  mother  earth's  lap — sleeping  there  none  the 
less  peacefully  because  the  necks  of  many  of  them  had  suffered 
a  nasty  rick  from  the  hangman's  rope,  and  because  the  hard- 
trodden  pavement  of  the  prison-yard  covered  them. 

The  fine  stables  of  the  White  Lion  stood  tenantless,  now, 
from  year's  end  to  year's  end.  Rats  scampered,  and  bats 
squeaked  in  unlovely  ardours  of  courtship,  about  the  ranges  of 
empty  stalls  and  cobweb-hung  rafters.  Yet  one  ghost  from 
out  the  golden  age  haunted  the  place  still — a  lean,  withered, 
bandy-legged,  little  stick  of  a  man,  arrayed  in  frayed  and 
tarnished  splendour  of  sky-blue  waist-jacket,  silver  lace,  and 
jack-boots   of  which  the  soles  and  upper  leathers  threatened 


THE  BREAKING  OF  DREAMS  171 

speedy  and  final  divorce.  In  all  weathers  this  bit  of  human 
wreckage — Jackie  Deeds  by  name — might  be  seen  wandering 
aimlesslyabout  the  vacant  yard,  or  seated  upon  the  bench  be- 
side the  portico  of  the  silent,  bow-windowed  inn,  pulling  at  a, 
too  often  empty,  clay-pipe  and  spitting  automatically. 

Over  Richard,  tender-hearted  as  yet  towards  all  creacures 
whom  nature  or  fortune  had  treated  cavalierly,  the  decrepit 
postboy  exercised  a  fascination.  One  day,  when  driving 
through  the  Row  with  Mary  Cathcart,  he  had  succeeded  in 
establishing  relations  with  Jackie  Deeds  through  the  medium 
of  a  half-crown.  And  now,  as  he  waited  beneath  the  rustling 
sycamores,  it  was  with  a  sensation  of  quick,  yet  half-shy, 
pleasure,  that  he  saw  the  disreputable  figure  lurch  out  of  the 
inn  yard,  stand  for  a  minute  shading  eyes  with  hand  while 
making  observations,  and  then  hobble  across  the  street,  touch- 
ing the  peak  of  a  battered,  black-velvet  cap  as  it  advanced. 

"  Be  'e  come  to  zee  the  show,  sir  ?  "  the  old  man  coughed 
out,  peering  with  dim,  blear  eyes  up  into  the  boy*s  fresh  face. 

*'  No,  we've  come  about  something  from  Appleyard's.  I — I 
didn't  know  there  was  a  show." 

*^  Oh  !  hain't  there  though.  Sir  Richard  !  I  tell  'e  there  be 
a  prime  sight  of  a  show.  There  be  monkeys  down  town,  and 
dorgs  what  dances  on  their  'inder  legs,  and  gurt  iron  cages 
chock  full  er  wild  beastises,  by  what  they  tells  me." 

Dickie,  feeling  anxiously  in  his  pockets  for  some  coin  of 
sufficient  size  to  be  worthy  of  Mr.  Deeds'  acceptance,  ejacu- 
lated involuntarily  : — "  Oh  !  are  there  ?  I'd  give  anything  to 
see  them." 

"  Sixpence  'ud  do  most  er  they  'ere  shows,  I  expect.  The 
wild  beastises  'ud  run  into  a  shilling  may  be." — The  old  post- 
boy made  a  joyless,  creaking  sound,  bearing  but  slightest 
affinity  to  laughter.  "  But  you  'ud  see  your  way  round  more'n 
a  shilling,  Sir  Richard.  A  terrible,  rich,  young  gentleman,  by 
what  they  tells  me." 

Something  a  trifle  malicious  obtained  in  this  attempt  at 
jocosity,  causing  Dickie  to  bend  down  rather  hastily  over  the 
wheel,  and  thrust  his  offering  into  the  crumpled,  shaky  hands. 

"  There,"  he  said.  "  Oh  !  it's  nothing.  I'm  so  pleased 
you — you  don't  mind.     Where  do  you  say  this  show  is  ?  " 

"  Gor  a'mighty  bless  'e,  sir,"  the  old  man  whimpered,  with 
a  change  of  tone.     ''  'Tain't  every  day  poor  old  Jackie  Deeds 


172  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

runs  across  a  rich,  young  gentleman  as  ull  give  him  'arf  a 
crown.     Times  Is  bad,  mortal  bad — couldn't  be  much  wuss.'* 

"  Tm  so  sorry,"  Richard  answered.  He  felt  apologetic,  as 
though  in  some  manner  responsible  for  the  decay  of  the  coach- 
ing system  and  his  companion's  fallen  estate. 

"  Mortal  bad,  couldn't  be  no  wuss." 

"  I'm  very  sorry.  But  about  the  show — where  is  it  please  ?  " 
the  boy  asked  again,  a  little  anxious  to  change  the  subject. 

"  Oh  !  that  there  show.  'Taln't  much  of  a  show  neither, 
by  what  they  tells  me." 

Mr.  Deeds  spoke  with  sudden  irritability.  Uplifted  by  the 
possession  of  a  half  crown,  he  became  contemptuous  of  the 
present,  jealous  of  the  past  when  such  coin  was  more  plentiful 
with  him. 

"  Not  much  of  a  show,"  he  repeated.  "  The  young  uns 
ull  crack  up  most  anything  as  comes  along.  But  that's  their 
stoopidness.  Never  zeed  nothing  better.  Law  bless  'e,  this 
ain't  a  patch  on  the  shows  I've  a'  zeen  In  my  day.  Cock- 
fightings,  and  fellows — wi'  a  lot  er  money  laid  on  'em  by  the 
gentry  too — a-pounding  of  each  other  till  there  weren't  an 
inch  above  the  belt  of  'em  as  weren't  bloody.  And  the  Irish 
giant,  and  dwarfs  'ad  over  from  France.  They  tell  me  most 
Frencheys's  made  that  way.  Ole  Boney  'isself  wasn't  much 
of  a  one  to  look  at.  And  I  can  mind  a  calf  wi'  tv/o  'eads — 
^ud  eat  wI'  both  mouths  at  once,  and  all  the  food  'ud  go  down 
into  the  same  belly.  And  a  man  wi'  no  arms,  never  'ad  none, 
by  what  they  used  to  tell  me " 

"  Ah  !  "  Richard  exclaimed  quickly. 

"No,  never  'ad  none,  and  yet  'ud  play  the  drum  wi'  'is 
toes  and  fire  off  a  horse  pistol.  Lor,  you  would  'er  laughed  to 
'av  zeen  'Im.     'E  ma^je  fine  sport  for  the  folks  'e  did." 

Jackie  Deeds  had  recovered  his  good-humour.  He  peered 
up  into  the  boy's  face  again  maliciously,  and  broke  into  cheer- 
less, creaking  merriment. 

"  Gor  a'mighty  'as  'Is  jokes  too,"  he  said.  "  I'm  thinking, 
by  the  curous  made  creeturs  'e  sends  along  sometimes." 

"  Chifney,"  Richard  called  Imperatively.  "  Chifney,  are 
you  nearly  ready  ?  We  ought  to  get  home.  There's  a  storm 
coming  up." 

"  Well,  we  shall  get  that  matter  of  the  saddle  done  right 
enough,  Sir  Richard,"  the   trainer  remarked  presently,  as  the 


THE  BREAKING  OF  DREAMS  173 

carriage  bowled  up  the  street.  "  Don't  be  too  free  with  the 
whip,  sir. — Steady,  steady  there. — Mind  the  donkey-cart. — 
Bear  away  to  the  right.  Don't  let  'em  get  above  ^-hemselves. 
Excuse  me,  Sir  Richard." 

He  leaned  forward  and  laid  both  hands  quietly  on  the  reins. 

"  Look  here,  sir,"  he  said,  "  I  think  you'd  better  let  Henry 
lead  the  horses  past  all  this  variety  business." 

The  end  of  the  street  was  reached.  On  either  hand  small 
red  or  white  houses  trend  away  in  a  broken  line  along  the  edge 
of  a  flat,  grass  common,  backed  by  plantations  of  pollarded 
oak  trees.  In  the  foreground,  fringing  the  broad  roadway, 
were  booths,  tents,  and  vans.  And  the  staring  colours  of 
these  last,  raw  reds  and  yellows,  the  blue  smoke  beating  down 
from  their  little  stove-pipe  chimneys,  the  dirty  white  of  tent 
flaps  and  awnings,  stood  out  harshly  in  a  flare  of  stormy  sun- 
light against  the  solid  green  of  the  oaks  and  uprolling  masses 
of  black-purple  cloud. 

Here  indeed  was  the  show.  But  to  Richard  Calmady's 
eyes  it  lacked  disappointingly  in  attraction.  His  nerves  were 
somewhat  a-quiver.  All  the  course  detail,  all  the  unlovely 
foundations,  of  the  business  of  pleasure  were  rather  distress- 
ingly obvious  to  his  sight.  A  merry-go-round  was  in  full  ac- 
tivity— wooden  horses  and  most  unseaworthy  boats  describing 
a  jerky  circle  to  the  squeaking  of  tin  whistles  and  purposeless 
thrumpings  of  a  drum.  Close  by  a  crop-eared  lurcher,  tied 
beneath  one  of  the  vans,  dragged  choking  at  his  chain  and 
barked  himself  frantic  under  the  stones  and  teasing  of  a  knot 
of  idle  boys.  A  half-tipsy  slut  of  a  woman  threatened  a  child, 
who,  in  soiled  tights  and  spangles,  crouched  against  the  muddy 
hind-wheel  of  a  wagon,  tears  dribbling  down  his  cheeks,  his 
arm  raised  to  ward  off  the  impending  blow.  From  the  men- 
agerie— an  am.orphous  huddle  of  gray  tents,  ranged  behind 
a  flight  of  wooden  steps  leading  up  to  an  open  gallery  hung 
with  advertisements  of  the  many  attractions  within — came  the 
hideous  laughter  of  a  hyena,  and  the  sullen  roar  of  a  lion 
weary  of  the  rows  of  stolid  English  faces  staring  daily,  hourly, 
between  the  bars  of  his  foul  and  narrow  cage,  heart-sick  with 
longing  for  sight  of  the  open,  starlit  heaven  and  the  white- 
domed,  Moslem  tombs  amid  the  prickly,  desert  thickets  and 
plains  of  clean,  hot  sand.  On  the  edge  of  the  encampment 
horses  grazed — sorry  beasts  for  the  most  part,  galled,  broken- 


174  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

kneed  and  spavined,  weary  and  heart-sick  as  the  captive  lion. 
But  weary  not  from  idleness,  as  he.  Weary  from  heavy  loads 
and  hard  ♦■raveling  and  scant  provender.  Sick  of  collar  and 
whip  and  reiterated  curses. 

About  the  tents  and  booths,  across  the  grass,  and  along  the 
roadway,  loitered  a  sad-coloured,  country  crowd.  Even  to 
the  children,  it  took  its  pleasure  slowly  and  silently  ;  save  in 
the  case  of  a  hulking,  young  carter  in  a  smock-frock,  who, 
being  pretty  far  gone  in  liquor,  alternately  shouted  bawdy 
songs  and  offered  invitation  to  the  company  generally  to  come 
on  and  have  its  head  punched. 

Such  were  the  pictures  that  impressed  themselves  upon 
Richard's  brain  as  Henry  led  the  dancing  carriage-horses  up 
the  road.  And  it  must  be  owned  that  from  this  first  sight  of 
life,  as  the  common  populations  live  it,  his  soul  revolted. 
Delicately  nurtured,  finely  bred,  his  sensibility  accentuated  by 
the  prickings  of  that  thorn  in  the  flesh  which  was  so  intimate 
a  part  of  his  otherwise  noble  heritage,  the  grossness  and  bru- 
tality of  much  which  most  boys  of  his  age  have  already  learnt 
to  take  for  granted  affected  him  to  the  point  of  loathing. 
And  more  especially  did  he  loathe  the  last  picture  presented  to 
him  on  the  outskirts  of  the  common.  At  the  door  of  a 
gaudily-painted  van,  somewhat  apart  from  the  rest,  stood  a 
strapping  lass,  tambourine  in  one  hand,  tin  mug  for  the  hold- 
ing of  pennies  in  the  other.  She  wore  a  black,  velvet  bodice, 
rusty  with  age,  and  a  blue,  silk  skirt  of  doubtful  cleanliness, 
looped  up  over  a  widely  distended  scarlet  petticoat.  Rows  of 
amber  beads  encircled  her  brown  throat.  She  laughed  and 
leered,  bold-eyed  and  coarsely  alluring,  at  a  couple  of  sheepish 
country  lads  on  the  green  below.  She  called  to  them,  point- 
ing over  her  shoulder  with  the  tin  cup,  to  the  sign-board  of 
her  show.  At  the  painting  on  that  board  Richard  Calmady 
gave  one  glance.  His  lips  grew  thin  and  his  face  white.  He 
jerked  at  the  reins,  causing  the  horses  to  start  and  swerve. 
Was  it  possible  that,  as  old  Jackie  Deeds  said,  God  Almighty 
had  His  jokes  too,  jokes  at  the  expense  of  His  own  creation  f 
That  in  cynical  abuse  of  human  impotence,  as  a  wanton  pas- 
time. He  sent  human  beings  forth  into  the  world  thus  ludi- 
crously defective  ?  The  thought  was  unformulated.  It 
amounted  hardly  to  a  thought  indeed, — was  but  a  blind  terror 
of  insecurity,  which,  coursing  through  the  boy's  mind,  filled 


THE  BREAKING  OF  DREAMS  175 

him  with  agonised  and  angry  pity  towards  all  disgraced  fellow- 
beings,  all  enslaved  and  captive  beasts.  Dimly  he  recognised 
his  kinship  to  all  such. 

Meanwhile  the  carriage  bowled  along  the  smooth  road  and 
up  the  long  hill,  bordered  by  fir  and  beech  plantations,  which 
leads  to  Spendle  Flats.  And  there,  in  the  open,  the  storm 
came  down,  in  rolling  thunder  and  lashing  rain.  Tall,  shift- 
ing, white  columns  chased  each  other  madly  across  the  bronze 
expanse  of  the  moorland.  Chifney,  mindful  of  his  charge, 
hurried  Dickie  into  a  greatcoat,  buttoned  it  carefully  round 
him,  offered  to  drive,  almost  insisted  on  doing  so.  But  the 
boy  refused  curtly.  He  welcomed  the  stinging  rain,  the 
swirling  wind,  the  swift  glare  of  hghtning,  the  ache  and  strain 
of  holding  the  pulling  horses.  The  violence  of  it  all  heated 
his  blood  as  with  the  stern  passion  of  battle.  And  under  the 
influence  of  that  passion  his  humour  changed  from  agonised 
pity  to  a  fierce  determination  of  conquest.  He  would  fight, 
he  would  come  through,  he  would  win,  he  would  slay  dragons. 
Prometheus-like  he  would  defy  the  gods.  Again  his  thought 
was  unformulated,  little  more  than  the  push  of  young,  un- 
tamed energy  impatient  of  opposition.  But  that  he  could  face 
this  wild  mood  of  nature  and  control  and  guide  these  high- 
mettled,  headstrong  horses  gave  him  coolness  and  self-confi- 
dence. It  yielded  him  assurance  that  there  was,  after  all,  an 
immensity  of  distance  between  himself  and  all  caged,  out- 
worn creatures,  and  that  the  horrible  example  of  deformity 
upon  the  brazen-faced  girl's  show-board  had  really  nothing  to 
do  with  him.  Dickie's  last  humour  was  less  noble  than  his 
first,  it  is  to  be  feared.  But  in  all  healthy  natures,  in  all  those 
in  whom  the  love  of  beauty  is  keen,  there  must  be  in  youth 
strong  repudiation  of  the  brotherhood  of  suffering.  Time 
will  teach  a  finer  and  deeper  lesson  to  those  that  have  faith 
and  courage  to  receive  it;  yet  it  is  well  the  young  should 
defy  sorrow,  hate  suffering,  gallantly,  however  hopelessly, 
fight. 

And  the  warlike  instinct  remained  by  Dickie  all  that  even- 

I  ing.  He  was  determined  to  assert  himself,  to  measure  his 
power,  to  obtain.  While  Winter  was  helping  him  dress  for 
dinner  he  gave  orders  that  his  chair  should  be  placed  at  the 

ft     bottom  of  the  table. 

I  "  But  the  colonel  sits  there,  Sir  Richard." 


176  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

Dickie's  face  did  not  give  in  the  least. 

"  He  has  sat  there,"  he  answered  rather  shortly.  "  But  1 
have  spoken  to  her  ladyship,  and  in  future  he  will  sit  by  her. 
ril  go  down  early,  Winter.  I  prefer  being  in  my  place  when 
the  others  come  in." 

It  must  be  added  that  Ormiston  accepted  his  deposition  in 
the  best  possible  spirit,  patting  the  boy  on  the  shoulder  as  he 
passed  him. 

^^  Quite  right,  old  chap.  I  like  to  see  you  there.  Claim 
your  own,  and  keep  it." 

At  which  a  lump  rose  in  Dickie's  throat,  nearly  causing 
him  to  choke  over  his  first  spoonful  of  soup.  But  Mary 
Cathcart  whose  kind  eyes  saw  most  things,  smiled  first  upon 
her  lover  and  then  upon  him,  and  began  talking  to  him  of 
horses,  as  one  sportsman  to  another.  And  so  Dickie  speedily 
recovered  himself,  and  grew  eager,  playing  host  very  prettily 
at  his  own  table. 

He  demanded  to  sit  up  to  prayers,  moreover,  and  took  his 
place  in  the  dead  Richard  Calmady's  stall  nearest  the  altar 
rails  on  the  left.  Next  him  was  Dr.  Knott,  who  had  come  in 
unexpectedly  just  before  dinner.  He  had  the  boy  a  little  on 
his  mind;  and,  while  contemptuous  of  his  own  weakness  in 
the  matter,  wanted  badly  to  know  just  how  he  was.  Lady 
Calmady  had  begged  him  to  stay.  He  could  be  excellent 
company  when  he  pleased.  He  had  laid  aside  his  roughness 
of  manner  and  been  excellent  company  to-night.  Next  him 
was  Ormiston,  while  the  seats  immediately  below  were  occu- 
pied by  the  men-servants.  Winter  at  their  head. 

Opposite  to  Richard,  across  the  chapel,  sat  Lady  Calmady. 
The  fair,  summer  moonlight  streaming  in  through  the  east 
window  spread  a  network  of  fairy  jewels  upon  her  stately, 
gray-clad  figure  and  beautiful  head.  Beside  her  was  Mary 
Cathcart,  and  then  came  a  range  of  dark,  vacant  stalls.  And 
below  these  was  a  long  line  of  women-servants,  ranging  from 
Denny,  in  rustling,  black  silk,  and  Clara, — alert  and  pretty, 
though  a  trifle  tearful, — through  many  grades  and  orders, 
down  to  the  little  scullery-maid,  fresh  from  the  keeper's  cot- 
tage on  the  Warren — homesick,  and  half  scared  by  the  grancf 
gentlemen  and  ladies  in  evening-dress,  by  the  strange,  lovely 
figures  in  the  stained-glass  windows,  by  the  great,  gold  cross 
and  flowers,  and  the  rich  altar-cloth  and  costly  hangings  but 


THE  BREAKING  OF  DREAMS  177 

half  seen  in  the  conflicting  light  of  the  moonbeams  and  quiv- 
ering candles. 

John  Knott  was  impressed  by  the  scene  too,  though  hardly 
on  the  same  lines  as  the  little  scullery-maid.  He  had  long 
ago  passed  the  doors  of  orthodoxy  and  dogma.  Christian 
church  and  heathen  temple — could  he  have  had  the  interest- 
ing experience  of  entering  the  latter — were  alike  to  him. 
The  attitude  and  office  of  the  priest,  the  same  in  every  age 
and  under  every  form  of  religion,  filled  him  with  cynical 
scorn.  Yet  he  had  to  own  there  was  something  inexpressibly 
touching  in  the  nightly  gathering  together  of  this  great  house- 
hold, gentle  and  simple;  and  in  this  bowing  before  the  source 
of  the  impenetrable  mystery  which  surrounds  and  encloses  the 
so  curiously  urgent  and  vivid  consciousness  of  the  individual. 
He  had  to  own,  too,  that  there  was  something  inexpressibly 
touching  in  the  tones  of  Julius  March's  voice  as  he  read  of 
the  young  Galilean  prophet  "  going  about  and  doing  good  " — 
simple  and  gracious  record  of  human  tenderness  and  pity, 
upon  which,  in  the  course  of  centuries,  the  colossal  fabric  of 
the  modern  Christianity,  Catholic  and  Protestant,  has  been 
built  up. 

" '  And  great  multitudes  came  to  Him,' "  read  Julius, 
"'having  with  them  those  that  were  lame,  blind,  dumb, 
maimed,  and  many  others,  and  cast  them  down  at  Jesus'  feet, 
and  He  healed  them ;  insomuch  that  the  multitude  marveled 
when  they  saw  the  dumb  to  speak,  and  the  maimed  to  be 
whole,  and  the  lame  to  walk '  " 

How  simple  it  all  sounded  in  that  sweet,  old-world  story  ! 
And  yet  how  lamentably,  in  striving  to  accomplish  just  these 
same  things,  his  own  far-reaching  science  failed  ! 

"'The  maimed  to  be  whole,  the  lame  to  walk  '  " — invol- 
untarily he  looked  round  at  the  boy  beside  him. 

Richard  leaned  back  in  his  stall,  tired  with  the  long  day  and 
its  varying  emotions.  His  eyes  were  half  closed,  and  his 
profile  showed  pale  as  wax  against  the  background  of  dark 
woodwork.  His  eyebrows  were  drawn  into  a  slight  frown, 
and  his  face  bore  a  peculiar  expression  of  reticence.  Once 
he  glanced  up  at  the  reader,  as  though  on  a  sudden  a  pleasant 
thought  occurred  to  him.  But  the  movement  was  a  passing 
one.  He  leaned  back  in  his  stall  again  and  folded  his  arms, 
with  a  movement  of  quiet  pride,  almost  of  contempt. 


178  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

Later  that  night,  as  her  custom  was,  Katherlne  opened  the 
door  of  Richard's  room  softly,  and  entering  bent  over  his  bed 
in  the  warm  dimness  to  give  him  a  last  look  before  going  to  rest 
herself.  To-night  Dickie  was  awake.  He  put  his  arms  round 
her  coaxingly. 

"Stay  a  little,  mummy  darling,"  he  said.  "  I  am  not  a  bit 
sleepy.     I  want  to  talk." 

Katherine  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the  bed.  All  the  mass 
of  her  hair  was  unbound,  and  fell  in  a  cloud  about  her  to  the 
waist.  Richard,  leaning  on  one  elbow,  gathered  it  together, 
held  and  kissed  it.  He  was  possessed  by  the  sense  of  his  mother's 
great  beauty.  She  seemed  so  magnificently  far  removed  from 
all  that  is  coarse,  spoiled,  or  degraded.  She  seemed  so  superb^ 
so  exquisite  a  personage.  So  he  gazed  at  her,  kissed  her 
hair,  and  gently  touched  her  arms,  where  the  open  sleeves 
of  her  white  dressing-gown  left  them  bare,  in  reverential 
ecstasy. 

Katherine  became  almost  perplexed. 

^'  My  dearest,  what  is  it  ?  "  she  asked  at  last. 

"  Oh  !  it's  only  that  you're  so  perfect,  mother,"  he  said. 
"  You  make  me  feel  so  safe  somehow.  I'm  never  afraid  when 
you  are  there." 

"  Afraid  of  what  ?  "  she  asked.  A  hope  came  upon  her  that 
he  had  grown  nervous  of  riding,  and  wanted  her  to  help  him 
to  retire  gracefully  from  the  matter.  But  his  next  words 
undeceived  her.  He  threw  himself  back  against  the  pillow 
and  clasped  his  hands  under  his  head. 

"That's  just  it,"  he  said.  "I  don't  know  exactly  what 
I  am  afraid  of,  and  yet  I  do  get  awfully  scared  at 
times.  I  suppose,  mother,  if  one's  in  a  good  position — the 
position  we're  in,  you  know — nobody  can  ill-use  one  very 
much  ?  " 

Lady  Calmady's  eyes  blazed  with  indignation.  "  Ill-use 
you  ?  Who  has  ever  dared  to  hint  at,  to  dream  of  such  a 
thing,  dear  Richard  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no  one — no  one  !  Only  I  can't  help  wondering 
about  things,  you  know.  And  some — some  people  do  get 
most  awfully  ill-used.     I  can't  help  seeing  that." 

Katherine  paused  before  answering.  The  boy  did  not  look 
at  her.  She  spoke  with  quiet  conviction,  her  eyes  gazing  out 
into  the  dimness  of  the  room. 


THE  BREAKING  OF  DREAMS  179 

"  1  know,"  she  said,  almost  reluctantly.  "  And  perhaps 
it  is  as  well  you  should  know  it  too,  though  it  is  sad  knowledge. 
People  are  not  always  very  considerate  of  one  another.  But 
ill-usage  cannot  touch  you,  my  dearest.  You  are  saved  by 
love,  by  position,  by  wealth." 

"You  are  sure  of  that,  mother  ?  " 

"  Sure  ?  Of  course  I  am  sure,  darling,"  she  answered. 
Yet  even  while  speaking  her  heart  sank. 

Richard  remained  silent  for  a  space.  Then  he  said,  with 
certain  hesitancy :  "  Mother,  tell  me,  it  is  true  then  that  I  am 
rich  ? " 

"Quite  true,  Dick." 

"  But  sometimes  people  lose  their  money." 

Katherine  smiled. — "  Your  money  is  not  kept  in  a  stocking, 
dearest." 

"  I  don't  suppose  it  is,"  the  boy  said,  turning  towards  her. 
*'  But  don't  banks  break  ?  " 

"  Yes,  banks  break.  But  a  good  many  broken  banks  would 
not  affect  you.  It  is  too  long  a  story  to  tell  you  now,  Dickie, 
but  your  income  is  very  safe.  It  would  almost  need  a  revolu- 
tion to  rum  you.  You  are  rich  now ;  and  I  am  able  to  save 
considerable  sums  for  you  yearly." 

"  It's — it's  awfully  good  of  you  to  take  so  much  trouble  for 
me,  mother,"  he  interrupted,  stroking  her  bare  arm  again 
delicately. 

To  Katherine  his  half-shy  endearments  were  the  most 
delicious  thing  in  life — so  delicious  that  at  moments  she  could 
hardly  endure  them.     They  made  her  heart  too  full. 

"  Eight  years  hence,  when  you  come  of  age  and  I  give 
account  of  my  stewardship,  you  will  be  very  rich,"  she 
said. 

Richard  lay  quite  still,  his  eyes  again  fixed  on  the  dimness. 

"  That — that's  good  news,"  he  said  at  last,  drawing  a  long 
breath.  "  I  saw  things  to-day,  mother,  while  we  were  driving. 
It  was  nobody's  fault.  There  was  a  fair  with  a  menagerie  and 
shows  at  Farley  Row.  I  couldn't  help  seeing.  Don't  ask  me 
about  it,  mother.  I'd  rather  forget,  if  I  can.  Only  it  made 
me  understand  that  it  is  safer  for  any  one — well,  any  one  like — 
me — don't  you  know,  to  be  rich." 

Richard  sat  up,  flung  his  arms  round  her  and  kissed  her 
with  sudden  passion. 


i8o  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

"Beautiful  mother,  honey-sweet  mother/'  he  cried, '^you've 
told  me  just  everything  I  wanted  to  know.  I  won't  be  afraid 
any  more."  Then  he  added,  in  a  charming  little  tone  of 
authority  :  "  Now  you  mustn't  stay  here  any  longer.  You 
must  be  tired.     You  must  go  co  bed  and  go  to  sleep." 


BOOK    III 

LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERCI 


CHAPTER  I 

IN  WHICH  OUR  hero's  WORLD  GROWS  SENSIBLY  WIDER 

TN  the  autumn  of  1862  Richard  Calmady  went  up  to  Oxford, 
Not  through  ostentation,  but  in  obedience  to  the  exigencies 
of  the  case,  his  going  was  in  a  somewhat  princely  sort,  so  that 
the  venerable  city,  moved  from  the  completeness  of  her 
scholarly  and  historic  calm,  turned  her  eyes,  in  a  flutter  of 
quite  mundane  excitement,  upon  the  newcomer.  Julius 
March  accompanied  Richard.  Time  and  thought  had  moved 
forward  ;  but  the  towers  and  spires  of  Oxford,  her  fair  cloisters 
and  enchanting  gardens,  her  green  meadows  and  noble  elms, 
her  rivers,  Isis  and  Cherwell,  remained  as  when  Julius  too 
had  been  among  the  young  and  ardent  of  her  sons.  He  was 
greatly  touched  by  this  return  to  the  Holy  City  of  his  early 
manhood.  He  renewed  old  friendships.  He  reviewed  the 
past,  taking  the  measure  calmly  of  what  life  had  promised, 
what  it  had  given  of  good.  A  pleasant  house  had  been  secured 
in  St.  Giles'  Street ;  and  a  contingent  of  the  Brockhurst  house- 
hold, headed  by  Winter,  went  with  the  two  gentlemen,  while 
Chaplin  and  a  couple  of  grooms  preceded  them,  in  charge  of  a 
goodly  number  of  horse-boxes. 

For  that  first  saddle,  fashioned  now  some  six  years  ago  by 
Josiah  Appleyard  of  Farley  Row,  had  worked  something  as  near 
a  miracle  as  ever  yet  was  worked  by  pigskin.  It  was  a 
singularly  ugly  saddle,  running  up  into  a  peak  front  and  back, 
furnished  with  a  complicated  system  of  straps  and  buckles  and 
— in  place  of  stirrups  and  stirrup-leathers — with  a  pair  of 
contrivances  resembling  old-fashioned  holsters.     Mary  Cath- 

181 


i82  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

cart's  brown  eyes  had  grown  moist  on  first  beholding  it.  And 
Colonel  Ormiston  had  exclaimed,  "  Good  God  !  Oh,  well, 
poor  dear  little  chap,  I  suppose  it's  the  best  we  can  do  for 
him."  An  ugly  saddle — yet  had  Josiah  Appleyard  ample 
reason  to  skip,  goat-like,  being  glad.  For,  ugly  or  not,  it 
fulfilled  its  purpose,  bringing  custom  to  the  maker  and  happi- 
ness and  health  to  the  owner  of  it. 

The  boy  rode  fearlessly,  while  exercise  and  exertion  begot 
in  him  a  certain  light-heartedness  and  audacity  good  to  see. 
The  window-seat  of  the  Long  Gallery,  the  book-shelves  of 
the  library,  knew  him  but  seldom  now.  He  was  no  less 
courteous,  no  less  devoted  to  his  mother,  no  less  in  admira- 
tion of  her  beauty ;  but  the  young  barbarian  was  well  awake 
in  Dickie,  and  drove  him  out  of  doors,  on  to  the  moorland  or 
into  the  merry  greenwood,  with  dog,  and  horse,  and  gun. 
On  his  well-broken  pony  he  shot  over  the  golden  stubble 
fields  in  autumn,  brought  down  his  pheasants,  stationed  at  the 
edge  of  the  great  coverts  ;  went  out  for  long  afternoons,  rab- 
biting in  the  warrens  and  field  banks,  escorted  by  spaniels  and 
retrievers,  and  keepers  carrying  lithe,  lemon-coloured  ferrets 
ded  up  in  a  bag. 

Later,  when  he  was  older, — but  this  tried  Katherine  some^ 
what,  reminding  her  too  keenly  of  another  Richard  Calmady 
and  days  long  dead, — Winter,  a  trifle  reluctant  at  such  short- 
ening of  his  own  virtuous  slumbers,  would  call  Dickie  and 
dress  him,  all  in  the  gray  of  the  summer  morning ;  while,  at 
the  little  arched  doorway  in  the  west  front,  Chifney  and  a 
groom  with  a  led  horse  would  await  his  coming,  and  the  boy 
would  mount  and  ride  away  from  the  great,  sleeping  house. 
At  such  times  a  charm  of  dewy  freshness  lay  on  grass  and 
woodland,  on  hill  and  vale.  The  morning  star  grew  pale  and 
vanished  in  the  clear-flashing  delight  of  sunrise,  as  Richard 
rode  forth  to  meet  the  string  of  racers  ;  as  he  noted  the  vary- 
ing form  and  fortune  of  Rattlepate  or  Sweet  Rosemary,  of 
Yellow  Jacket,  Morion  or  Light-o'-Love,  over  the  short  fra- 
grant turf  of  the  gallop  ;  as  he  felt  the  virile  joy  which  the 
strength  of  the  horses  and  the  pounding  rush  of  them  as  they 
swept  past  him  ever  aroused  in  him.  Then  he  would  ric^^eon^ 
by  a  short  cut,  to  the  old,  red-brick  rubbing-house,  crowning 
the  rising  ground  on  the  farther  side  of  the  lake,  and  wait  there 
to  see  the  finish,  talking  of  professional  matters  with  Chifney 


LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERCI  i8j 

meanwhile ;  or,  turning  his  horse's  head  towards  the  wide^ 
distant  view,  sit  silent,  drawing  near  to  nature  and  worship- 
ping— with  the  innocent  gladness  of  a  still  virgin  heart — in  the 
temple  of  the  dawn. 

Life  at  Oxford  was  set  in  a  different  key.  The  university 
city  was  well  disposed  towards  this  young  man  of  so  great 
wealth  and  so  strange  fortunes  ;  and  Richard  was  unsuspicious, 
and  ready  enough  to  meet  friendliness  half-way.  Yet  it  must 
be  owned  he  suffered  many  bad  quarters  of  an  hour.  He  was, 
at  once,  older  in  thought  and  younger  in  practical  experience 
than  his  fellow-undergraduates.  He  was  cut  off,  of  necessity, 
from  their  sports.  They  would  eat  his  breakfasts,  drink  his 
wine,  and  show  no  violent  objection  to  riding  his  horses. 
They  were  considerate,  almost  anxiously  careful  of  him,  be- 
ing  generous  and  good-hearted  lads.  And  yet  poor  Dick  was 
perturbed  by  the  fear  that  they  were  more  at  ease  without  him, 
that  his  presence  acted  as  a  slight  check  upon  their  genial  spirits 
and  their  rattling  talk.  And  so  it  came  about  that  though  his 
acquaintances  were  many,  his  friends  were  few.  Chief  among 
the  latter  was  Ludovic  Quayle,  a  younger  son  of  Lord  Fallow- 
feild — whom  that  kindly  if  not  very  intelligent  nobleman  had 
long  ago  proposed  to  export  from  the  Whitney  to  the  Brock- 
hurst  nursery  with  a  view  to  the  promotion  of  general  cheer- 
fulness. Mr.  Ludovic  Quayle  was  a  rather  superfine,  young 
gentleman,  possessed  of  an  excellent  opinion  of  himself,  and 
a  modest  opinion  of  other  persons — his  father  included.  But 
under  his  somewhat  supercilious  demeanour  there  was  a  vein 
of  true  romance.  He  loved  Richard  Calmady  ;  and  neither 
time,  nor  opposing  interests,  nor  certain  black  chapters  which 
had  later  to  be  read  in  the  history  of  life,  destroyed  or  even 
weakened  that  love. 

And  so  Dick,  finding  himself  at  sad  disadvantage  with  most 
of  the  charming  young  fellows  about  him  in  matters  of  play, 
turned  to  matters  of  work,  letting  go  the  barbarian  side  of  life 
for  a  while.  In  brain,  if  not  in  body,  he  believed  himself  the 
equal  of  the  best  of  them.  His  ambition  was  fired  by  the  de- 
sire of  intellectual  triumph.  He  would  have  the  success  of 
the  schools,  since  the  success  of  the  river  and  the  cricket- field 
were  denied  him.  Not  that  Richard  set  any  exaggerated  value 
upon  academic  honours.  Only  two  things  are  necessary — 
this  at  least  was  his  code  at  that  period — never  to  lapse  from 


i84  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

the  instincts  of  high-breeding  and  honour,  and  to  see  just  as 
much  of  life,  of  men  and  of  affairs,  as  obedience  to  those  in- 
stincts permits.  Already  the  sense  of  proportion  was  strong 
in  Richard,  fed  perhaps  by  the  galling  sense  of  personal  de- 
formity. Learning  is  but  a  part  of  the  whole  of  man's  equip- 
ment, and  a  paltry  enough  part  unless  wisdom  go  along  with 
it.  But  the  thirst  of  battle  remained  in  Richard;  and  in  this 
matter  of  learning,  at  least,  he  could  meet  men  of  his  own 
age  and  standing  on  equal  terms  and  overcome  them  in  fair 
fight. 

And  so,  during  the  last  two  years  of  his  university  course, 
he  did  meet  them  and  overcame,  honours  falling  liberally  to 
his  share.  Julius  March  looked  on  in  pleased  surprise  at  the 
exploits  of  his  former  pupil.  While  Ludovic  Quayle,  with 
raised  eyebrows  and  half-tender,  half-ironical  amusement 
relaxing  the  corners  of  his  remarkably  beautiful  mouth,  would 
say  : — 

"  Calmady,  you  really  are  a  shameless  glutton  !  How  many 
more  immortal  glories,  any  one  of  which  would  satisfy  an  or- 
dinary man,  do  you  propose  to  swallow  ?  " 

"  I  suppose  it's  a  bad  year,"  Richard  would  answer.  "  The 
others  can't  amount  to  very  much,  or,  needless  to  say,  I 
shouldn't  walk  over  the  course." 

"  A  charming  little  touch  of  modesty,  as  far  as  you  yourself 
are  concerned,"  Ludovic  answered.  "  But  not  strikingly  flat- 
tering to  the  others.  I  would  rather  suppose  you  abnormally 
clever,  than  all  the  rest  abnormally  stupid — for,  after  all,  you 
know,  am  I,  my  great  self,  not  among  the  rest  ?  " 

At  which  Dickie  would  laugh  rather  shamefacedly,  and  say: 
— "  Oh  you  ! — why  you  know  well  enough  you  could  do  any- 
thing you  liked  if  you  weren't  so  confoundedly  lazy  ! " 

And,  meanwhile,  at  Brockhurst,  as  news  arrived  of  these 
successes.  Lady  Calmady's  soul  received  comfort.  Her  step 
was  light,  her  eyes  full  of  clear  shining  as  she  moved  to  and 
fro  ordering  the  great  house  and  great  estate.  She  felt  repaid 
for  the  bitter  pain  of  parting  with  her  darling,  and  sending  him 
forth  to  face  the  curious,  possibly  scornful,  world  of  the  uni* 
versity  city.  He  had  proved  himself  and  won  his  spurs.  And 
this  solaced  her  in  the  solitude  and  loneliness  of  her  present 
life.  For  her  dear  friend  and  companion  Marie  de  Mirancourt 
had   found  the  final  repose,  before  seeking  that  of  the  con- 


LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERCI  185 

vent.  Early  one  February  morning,  In  the  second  year  of 
Richard's  sojourn  at  Oxford,  fortified  by  the  rites  of  the 
Church,  she  had  passed  the  gates  of  death  peacefully,  blessing 
and  blessed.  Katherine  mourned  for  her,  and  v/ould  continue 
to  mourn  with  still  and  faithful  sorrow,  even  while  welcoming 
home  her  young  scholar,  hearing  the  details  of  his  past  achieve- 
ments and  hopes  for  the  future,  or  entertaining — with  all 
gracious  hospitality — such  of  his  Oxford  friends  as  he  elected 
to  invite  to  Brockhurst. 

It  was  on  one  of  these  last  occasions,  the  young  men  hav- 
ing gone  down  to  the  Gun-Room  to  smoke  and  discuss  the 
day's  pheasant  shooting,  that  Katherine  had  kept  Julius  March 
standing  before  the  Chapel-Room  fire,  and  had  looked  at  him, 
a  certain  wistfulness  in  her  face. 

"  He  is  happy — don't  you  think,  Julius  ?  "  she  said.  "  He 
seems  to  me  really  happier,  more  contented,  than  I  have  ever 
seen  him  since  his  childhood." 

"Yes,  I  also  think  that,"  Julius  answered.  "  He  has  reason 
to  be  contented.  He  has  measured  himself  against  other  men 
and  is  satisfied  of  his  own  powers." 

"  Every  one  admires  him  at  Oxford  ?  " 

"Yes,  they  admire  and  envy  him.  He  has  been  brilliantly 
successful." 

Katherine  drew  herself  up,  clasping  her  hands  behind  her, 
and  smiling  proudly  as  she  mused,  gazing  into  the  crimson 
heart  of  the  burning  logs.  Then,  after  a  silence,  she  turned 
suddenly  to  her  companion. 

"  It  Is  very  sweet  to  have  you  here  at  home  again,  Julius,"^ 
she  said  gently.  "  I  have  missed  you  sorely  since  dearest 
Marie  de  Mirancourt  died.  Live  a  little  longer  than  I  do, 
please.  Ah  !  I  am  afraid  it  Is  no  small  thing  that  I  ask  you 
to  do  for  my  sake,  for  I  foresee  that  I  shall  survive  to  a 
lamentably  old  age.  But  sacrifice  yourself,  Julius,  In  the 
matter  of  living.  Less  than  ever,  when  the  shadows  fall,  shall 
I  be  able  to  spare  you." 

For  which  words  of  his  dear  lady's,  though  spoken  lightly, 
half  in  jest,  Julius  March  gave  God  great  thanks  that  night. 

It  v/as  about  this  period  that  two  pieces  of  news,  each  prov- 
ing eventually  to  have  much  personal  significance,  reached 
Lady  Calmady  from  the  outside  world.  The  first  took  the 
form  of  a  letter — a  rather  pensive  and  tired  letter — from  her 


i86  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

brother,  William  Ormiston,  telling  her  that  his  daughter 
Helen  was  about  to  marry  the  Comte  de  Vallorbes,  a  young 
gentleman  very  well  known  both  to  Parisian  and  Neapolitan 
society.  The  second  took  the  form  of  an  announcement  in 
the  Morning  Post^  to  the  effect  that  Lady  Tobemory,  whose 
lamented  death  that  paper  had  already  chronicled,  had  left  the 
bulk  of  her  not  inconsiderable  fortune  to  her  god-daughter 
Honoria,  eldest  child  of  that  distinguished  officer  General  St. 
Quentin.  In  both  cases  Lady  Calmady  wrote  letters  of  con- 
gratulation, in  the  latter  with  very  sincere  and  lively  pleasure. 
She  held  her  cousin.  General  St.  Quentin,  in  affection  for  old 
sake's  sake.  Honoria  she  remembered  as  a  singularly  grace- 
ful, high-bred,  little  maiden,  fleet  of  foot  as  a  hind — too  fleet 
of  foot  indeed  for  little  Dickie's  comfort  of  mind,  and  there- 
fore banished  from  the  Brockhurst  nursery.  In  the  former 
case,  her  congratulations  being  somewhat  conventional,  she 
added — in  her  own  name  and  that  of  Richard — a  necklace  of 
pearls,  with  a  diamond  clasp  and  bars  to  it,  of  no  mean  value. 
In  the  spring  of  1865  Richard  left  Oxford  for  good,  and 
took  up  his  residence  once  more  at  Brockhurst.  But  it  was 
not  until  the  autumn  of  the  following  year,  when  he  had 
reached  the  age  of  three-and-twenty,  and  had  already  for  some 
six  months  served  his  Queen  and  country  in  the  capacity  of 
Justice  of  the  Peace  for  the  county  of  Southampton,  that  any 
-event  occurred  greatly  affecting  his  fortunes,  and  therefore 
worthy  to  set  forth  at  large  in  this  history. 


CHAPTER  II 

TELLING    HOW    DICKIE's    SOUL    WAS  SOMEWHAT  SICK,  AND  HOW 
HE    MET    FAIR    WOMEN    ON    THE    CONFINES    OF    A    WOOD 

RICHARD  CALMADY  rode  homeward  through  the 
autumn  woods,  and  the  aspect  of  them  was  very  lovely. 
But  their  loveliness  was  hectic,  a  loveliness  as  it  seemed,  at 
all  events  at  first  sight,  of  death  and  burial,  rather  than  of  life 
and  hope.  The  sky  was  overcast,  and  a  chill  clung  to  the 
stream  side  and  haunted  the  hollows.  The  young  man's 
humour,  unfortunately,  was  only  too  much  in  harmony  with 


LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERCI  i8f 

the  more  melancholy  suggestions  of  the  scene.  For  Richard 
was  by  nature  something  of  a  poet,  though  he  but  rarely  wrote 
verses,  and  usually  burned  them  as  soon  as  written,  being 
scholar  enough  to  know  and  feel  impatient  of  the  "  second 
best."  And  this  inherent  strain  of  poetry  in  him  tempered 
the  active  and  practical  side  of  his  character,  making  wealth 
and  position,  and  all  those  things  which  the  worldly-minded 
seek,  seem  of  slight  value  to  him  at  times.  It  induced  in  him> 
many  and  very  varying  moods.  It  carried  him  back  often,, 
even  now  in  the  strength  of  his  young  manhood,  to  the  fine 
fancies  and  exquisite  unreason  of  the  fairy  vi^orld  in  which 
those  so  sadly  ill-balanced  footsteps  of  his  had  first  been  set. 
To-day  had  proved,  so  far,  an  unlucky  one,  prolific  of  war- 
fare between  his  clear  brain  and  all  too  sensitive  heart.  For 
it  was  the  burden  of  Richard's  temperament — the  almost 
inevitable  result  of  that  ever-present  thorn  in  the  flesh — that 
he  shrunk  as  a  poet,  even  as  a  woman,  vi^hile  as  a  man,  and  a 
strong  one,  he  reasoned  and  fought. 

It  fell  out  on  this  wise.  He  had  attended  the  Quarter 
Sessions  at  Westchurch  ;  and  a  certain  restlessness,  born  of 
the  changing  seasons,  being  upon  him,  he  had  ridden.  His^ 
habit,  when  passing  outside  the  limits  of  his  own  property^ 
was  to  drive.  He  became  aware — and  angrily  conscious  hi& 
groom  was  aware  also — that  his  appearance  afix>rded  a  spectacle 
of  the  liveliest  interest  to  the  passers-by  ;  that  persons  of  very^ 
various  age  and  class  had  stopped  and  turned  to  gaze  at  him  v 
and  that,  while  crossing  the  bridge  spanning  the  dark,  oily 
waters  of  the  canal,  in  the  industrial  quarter  of  the  pushing, 
wide-awake,  county  town,  he  had  been  the  subject  of  brutal 
comment,  followed  by  a  hoarse  laugh  from  the  collarless  throats 
of  some  dozen  operatives  and  bargees  loitering  thereupon. 

The  consequence  was  that  the  young  man  arrived  in  court, 
his  eyes  rather  hard  and  his  jaw  set.  Rich,  well-born,  not 
undistinguished  too  for  his  attainments,  and  only  three  and 
twenty,  Dickie  had  a  fine  fund  of  arrogance  to  draw  upon  yet. 
He  drew  upon  it  this  morning,  rather  to  the  confusion  of  his. 
colleagues  upon  the  bench.  Mr.  Cathcart,  the  chairman,  was 
already  present,  and  stood  talking  with  Mr.  Seymour,  the 
rector  of  Farley,  a  shrewd,  able  parson  of  the  old  sporting 
type.  Captain  Fawkes  of  Water  End  was  there  too ;  and  so- 
was  Lemuel  Image,  eldest  son  of  the  Mr.  Image,  sometime 


388  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

mayor  of  Westchurch,  who  has  been  mentioned  in  the  early 
pages  of  this  chronicle. 

In  the  last  twenty  years,  supported  by  ever-increasing  piles 
of  barrels,  the  Image  family  had  mounted  triumphantly  up- 
ward in  the  social  scale.  Lemuel,  the  man  in  question, 
married  a  poor  and  distant  relation  of  Lord  Aldborough,  the 
late  lord  lieutenant  of  the  county  ;  and  had  by  this,  and  by  a 
rather  truculent  profession  of  high  Tory  politics,  secured  him- 
self a  seat  on  the  bench.  He  had  given  a  fancy  price,  too,  for 
that  pretty,  little  place,  Frodsmill,  the  grounds  of  which  form 
such  an  exasperating  Naboth's  vineyard  in  the  heart  of  the 
Newland's  property.  Neither  his  person,  nor  his  politics,  nor 
his  absence  of  culture,  found  favour  in  Richard  Calmady's 
sight.  And  to-day,  being  somewhat  on  edge,  the  brewer's 
large,  blustering  presence  and  manner — at  once  patronising 
and  servile — struck  him  as  peculiarly  odious.  Image  betrayed 
an  evil  tendency  to  emphasise  his  remarks  by  slapping  his 
acquaintances  upon  the  back.  He  was  also  guilty  of  suppos- 
ing a  defect  of  hearing  in  all  persons  older  than,  or  in  any 
measure  denied  the  absolute  plethora  of  physical  vigour  so 
conspicuous  in,  himself.  He  invariably  raised  his  voice  in 
addressing  Richard.  In  return  for  which  graceful  attention 
Dickie  most  cordially  detested  him. 

^^  Image  is  a  bit  of  a  cad,  and  certainly  Calmady  makes  no 
bones  about  letting  him  know  it,"  Captain  Fawkes  remarked 
to  Mr.  Seymour,  as  they  drove  back  to  Farley  in  the  latter's 
dog-cart.  "Fortunately  he  has  a  hide  like  a  rhinoceros,  or 
we  should  have  had  a  regular  row  between  them  more  than 
once  this  morning.  Calmady's  generally  charming ;  but  I 
must  say,  v/hen  he  likes,  he  can  be  about  the  most  insolent 
fellow  I've  ever  met,  in  a  gentleman-like  way." 

"A  great  deal  of  that  is  simply  self-protective,"  the  clergy- 
man answered.  "It  is  not  difficult  to  see  how  it  comes  about, 
when  you  take  his  circumstances  into  account.  If  I  was  him, 
God  forgive  me,  I  know  I  shouldn't  be  half  so  svv^eet  tempered. 
He  bears  it  wonderfully  well,  all  things  considered." 

Nor  did  the  disturbing  incidents  of  the  day  end  with  the 
familiarities  of  the  loud-voiced  brewer.  The  principal  case  to 
be  tried  was  a  melancholy  one  enough — a  miserable  history  or 
wayward  desire,  shame  and  suffering,  followed  by  a  despairing 
<;ourse  of  lie^  and  petty  thieving  to  help  support  the  poor  baby 


LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERCI  189 

whose  advent  seemed  so  wholly  a  curse.  The  young  mother 
— a  pretty,  desperate  creature — made  no  attempt  at  deniaL 
She  owned  she  had  robbed  her  mistress  of  a  shilling  here  and 
sixpence  there,  that  she  had  taken  now  a  bit  of  table  silver  and 
then  a  garment  to  the  pawn-shop.  How  could  she  help  it  r 
Her  wages  were  a  trifle,  since  her  character  was  damaged. 
Wasn't  it  a  charity  to  employ  a  girl  like  her  at  all,  so  her 
mistress  said  ?  And  yet  the  child  must  live.  And  Richard 
Calmady,  sitting  in  judgment  there,  with  those  four  other 
gentlemen  of  substantial  means  and  excellent  position,  sick- 
ened as  he  listened  to  the  sordid  details,  the  relentless  ele- 
mentary arguments.  For  the  girl,  awed  and  frightened  at  first,, 
grew  eloquent  in  self-defensd. — "  She  loved  him  " — he  being 
a  smart  young  fellow,  who,  with  excellent  recommendations 
from  Chifney,  had  left  the  Brockhurst  stables  some  two  years^ 
before,  to  take  service  in  Westchurch. — "  And  he  always 
spoke  her  fair.  Had  told  her  he'd  marry  her  right  enough^ 
after  a  bit — before  God  he  would.  But  it  would  ruin  his 
chance  of  first-class  places  if  he  married  yet.  The  gentry 
wouldn't  take  any  but  single  m.en  of  his  age.  A  wife  would 
stand  in  his  way.  And  she  didn't  want  to  stand  in  his  way — 
he  knew  her  better  than  that.  Not  but  that  he  reckoned  her 
just  as  much  his  wife  as  any  woman  could  be.  Of  course  he 
did.  What  a  silly  she  was  to  trouble  about  it.  And  then  when 
there  was  no  hiding  any  longer  how  it  was  with  her,  he  up  and 
awayed  to  London,  saying  he  would  make  a  home  for  her 
there.  And  he  kept  on  writing  for  a  bit,  but  he  never  told  her 
where  to  write  to  him  in  return,  so  she  couldn't  answer.  And 
then  his  letters  came  seldom,  and  then  stopped  altogether,  and 

then — and  then " 

The  girl  was  rebuked  for  her  much  speaking,  and  so  wasting 
the  time  of  the  court.  There  were  other  cases.  And  Richard 
Calmady  sickened  yet  more,  recognising  in  that  a  parable  of 
perpetual  application.  For  are  there  not  always  other  cases  f 
The  tragedy  of  the  individual  life  reaching  its  climax  seems^ 
to  the  chief  actor,  worthy  to  claim  and  hold  universal  atten- 
tion. Yet  the  sun  never  stands  still  in  heaven,  nor  do  the 
footsteps  of  men  tarry  upon  earth.  No  one  person  may  take 
up  too  much  space,  too  much  time.  The  movement  of  things 
is  not  stayed.  The  single  cry,  however  bitter,  fs  drowned  in 
[the  roar  of  the  pushing  crowd.    The  individual,  however  keen 


190  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

his  griefs,  however  heinous  the  ofFense  done  him,  must  make 
way  for  those  same  other  cases.  This  is  the  everlasting 
law. 

And  so  pained,  out  of  tune,  troubled  too  by  smouldering 
fires  of  anger,  Richard  left  Westchurch  and  his  fellow-magis- 
trates as  early  as  he  decently  could.  Avoiding  the  highroad 
leading  by  Newlands  and  through  Sandyficld  village,  he  cut 
across  country  by  field  lanes  and  over  waste  lands  to  Farley 
Row.  The  wide  quiet  of  the  autumn  afternoon,  the  slight 
chill  in  the  air,  were  grateful  to  him  after  the  noise  and  close 
atmosphere  of  the  court.  Yet  the  young  man  strove  vainly  to 
think  of  pleasant  things  and  to  regain  his  serenity.  The  girl's 
tear-blotted  face,  the  tones  of  her  voice,  haunted  him.  Six 
■weeks'  imprisonment.  The  sentence,  after  all,  was  a  light 
one.  Yet  who  was  he,  who  were  those  four  other  well-to-do 
gentlemen,  that  they  should  judge  her  at  all  ?  How  could  they 
measure  the  strength  of  the  temptation  which  had  beset  her? 
If  temptation  is  strong  enough,  must  not  the  tempted  of  neces- 
sity yield  ?  If  the  tempted  does  not  yield,  is  that  not  merely 
proof  that  the  temptation  was  not  strong  enough  ?  The  whole 
thing  appeared  to  him  a  matter  of  mathematics  or  mechanics. 
Given  a  greater  weight  than  it  can  carry,  the  rope  is  bound  to 
break.  And  then  for  those  who  have  not  felt  the  strain  to 
blame  the  rope,  punish  the  rope  !  It  seemed  to  Richard,  as  he 
rode  homeward,  that  human  justice  is  too  often  a  very  comedy 
of  injustice.  It  all  appeared  to  him  so  exceedingly  foolish. 
And  yet  society  must  be  protected.  Other  pretty,  weak,  silly 
creatures  must  be  warned,  by  such  rather  brutal  object  lessons, 
■not  to  bear  bastards  or  pawn  their  mistresses'  spoons. 

''  ^  ye  ne  sals  pas  ce  que  c*est  que  la  vie  eternelle^  mais  celle  p'  est 
une  mauvaise  plaisanteruy  *'  Dickie  quoted  to  himself  some- 
what bitterly. 

He  turned  aside  at  Farley  Row,  following  the  narrow  road 
that  runs  behind  the  houses  in  the  main  street  and  the  great, 
vacant  stables  and  outbuildings  of  the  White  Lion  Inn.  And 
here,  as  though  the  immediate  displeasures  of  this  ill-starred 
day  were  insufficient,  memory  arose  and  recalled  other  dis- 
pleasures of  long  ago.  Recalled  old  Jackie  Deeds  lurching  out 
of  that  same  inn  yard,  empty  pipe  in  mouth,  greedy  of  alms. 
Recalled  the  old  postboy's  ugly  morsel  of  profanity — "  God 
Almighty  had  His  jokes  too."     And,  at  that,  the  laughter  of 


LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERCI  191 

those  loafers  upon  the  canal  bridge  saluted  Richard's  cars  once 
more,  as  did  the  loud,  familiar  phrases  of  Mr.  Lemuel  Image^ 
the  Westchurch  brewer. 

Before  him  the  flat  expanse  of  Gierke's  Green  opened  out ;, 
and  the  turf  of  it — beaded  with  dew  which  the  frail  sunshine 
of  the  early  morning  had  failed  to  burn  up — was  crossed  by 
long  tracks  of  darker  green,  where  flocks  of  geese  had  wan- 
dered over  its  misty  surface.  Here  the  traveling  menagerie 
and  all  the  booths  of  the  fair  had  been  stationed.  Memory 
rigged  up  the  tents  once  more,  painted  the  vans  in  crude^ 
glaring  colours,  set  drums  beating  and  merry-go-rounds  turn- 
ing, pointed  a  malicious  finger  at  the  sign-board  of  a  certain- 
show.  How  many  times  Richard  had  passed  this  way  in  the 
intervening  years,  and  remembered  in  passing,  yet  thrown  all 
hurt  of  remembrance  from  him  directly  and  lightly  1  To-day 
it  gripped  him.     He  put  his  horse  into  a  sharp  trot. 

Skirting  the  edge  of  the  green,  he  rode  down  a  rutted  cart 
lane — farm  buildings  and  well-filled  rickyards  on  the  left — and 
forded  the  shallow,  brown  stream  which  separates  the  parish 
of  Farley  from  that  of  Sandyfield  and  the  tithing  of  Brock- 
hurst. 

Ahead  lay  the  wide,  rough  road,  ending  in  a  broken  avenue 
of  ancient  oaks,  and  bordered  on  either  hand  by  a  strip  of 
waste  land  overgrown  with  coarse  grasses  and  low  thickets  of 
maple — which  leads  up  tc  the  entrance  of  the  Brockhurst 
woods.  Over  these  hung  a  soft,  bluish  haze,  making  them 
appear  vast  in  extent,  and  upraising  the  dark  ridge  of  the  fir 
forest,  which  crowns  them,  to  mountain  height  against  the 
western  sky.  A  covey  of  partridges  ran  up  the  sandy  road 
before  Richard's  horse  ;  and,  rising  at  last,  with  a  long-drawn 
whir  of  wings,  skimmed  the  top  of  the  bank  and  dropped  into 
the  pale  stubble  field  on  the  other  side  of  it.  He  paused  at  the 
head  of  the  avenue  while  the  keeper's  wife — in  lilac  apron  and 
sunbonnet — ran  out  to  open  the  big,  white  gate;  the  dogs^ 
meantime,  from  their  kennels  under  the  Spanish  chestnuts 
upon  the  slope  behind  her  gabled  cottage,  setting  up  a 
vociferous  chorus.  Thus  heralded,  Richard  passed  into  the 
whispering,  mysterious  stillness  of  the  autumn  woods. 

The  summer  had  been  dry  and  fine,  the  foliage  unusually- 
rich  and  heavy,  all  the  young  wood  ripening  well.  Conse^ 
quently  the  turn  of  the  leaf  was  very  brilliant  that  year.     The 


192  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY  ^ 

-sweetly,  sober,  English  landscape  seemed  to  have  run  mad  and 
decked  itself,  as  for  a  masquerade,  in  extravagant  splendours  ot 
colour.  The  smooth-stemmed  beeches  had  taken  on  every 
tint  from  fiery  brown,  through  orange  and  amber,  to  verdigris 
green  touching  latest  July  shoots.  The  round-headed  oaks, 
practising  even  in  carnival  time  a  measure  of  restraint,  had 
arrayed  themselves  in  a  hundred  rich,  finely-gradated  tones  of 
russet  and  umber.  While,  here  and  thei*e,  a  tall  bird-cherry, 
waxing  wanton,  had  clothed  itself  like  the  Woman  of  Babylon 
in  rose-scarlet  from  crown  to  lowest  black-barked  twig. 
Higher  up,  the  larch  plantations  rose  in  crowds  of  butter- 
coloured  spires.  Amethystine  and  blood-red,  white-spotted 
toadstools,  in  little  companies,  pushed  through  the  light  soil 
on  either  side  the  road.  Trailing  sprays  of  bramble  glowed  as 
flame.  Rowan  berries  hung  in  heavy  coral  bunches,  and  the 
dogwood  spread  itself  in  sparse  china-pink  clusters.  Only  the 
undergrowth  of  crooked  alders,  in  swampy,  low-lying  places, 
kept  its  dark,  purplish  green ;  and  the  light  foliage  of  the  ash 
waved  in  shadowy  pallor  against  its  knobbed  and  knotted 
branches ;  and  the  ranks  of  the  encircling  firs  retained  their 
solemn  habit,  as  though  in  protest  against  the  universal  riot. 

The  stream  hidden  away  in  the  hazel  coppice  gurgled  and 
murmured.  Beech-masts  pattered  down,  startling  the  stillness 
as  with  a  sudden  dropping  of  thunder  rain.  Squirrels,  disturbed 
in  the  ingathering  of  their  winter  store,  whisked  up  the  boles 
of  the  great  trees  and  scolded  merrily  from  the  forks  of  the 
high  branches.  Shy  wild  things  rustled  and  scampered  unseen 
through  the  tangled  undergrowth  and  beds  of  bracken.  While 
that  veil  of  bluish  haze  touched  all  the  distance  of  the  land- 
scape with  a  delicate  mystery,  and  softly  blotted  the  vista  of 
each  wide  shooting  drive,  or  winding  pathway,  to  left  and 
right. 

And  as  Richard  rode  onward,  leaves  gay  even  in  death 
fluttering  down  around  him,  his  mood  began  to  suffer  change. 
He  ceased  to  think  and  began  to  feel  merely.  First  came  a 
dreamy  delight  in  the  beauty  of  the  scene  about  him.  Then 
the  sense  of  mystery  grew  upon  him — of  mystery,  not  merely 
hanging  in  the  delicate  haze,  but  dwelling  in  the  endless  variety 
of  form  and  colour  which  met  his  eyes,  of  mystery  inviting 
him  in  the  soft,  multitudinous  voices  of  the  woodland.  And 
as  the  minutes  passed  this  sense  grew  increasingly  provocative, 


LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERCI 


193 


became  too  increasingly  elusive.  The  light  leapt  into  Dickie's 
eyes.  He  smiled  to  himself.  He  was  filled  with  unreasoning 
expectation.  He  seemed — it  was  absurd,  yet  very  charming — 
to  be  playing  hide-and-seek  with  some  glad  secret  which  at  any 
instant  might  be  revealed  to  him.  It  murmured  to  him  in  the 
brook.  It  scolded  at  him  merrily  with  the  scolding  squirrels. 
It  startled  the  surrounding  stillness,  with  the  down  pattering 
beech-masts  and  fluttering  of  leaves.  It  eluded  him  deftly, 
rustling  av/ay  unseen  through  the  green  and  gold  of  the 
bracken.  Lastly  when,  reaching  the  summit  of  the  ridge  of 
hill,  he  entered  upon  the  levels  of  the  great  table-land,  it  hailed 
him  in  the  long-drawn  sighing  of  the  fir  forest.  For  a  wind, 
suddenly  awakened,  swept  towards  him  from  some  far  distance, 
neared,  broke  overhead,  as  summer  waves  upon  a  shingly 
beach,  died  in  delicious  whispers,  only  to  sweep  up  and  break 
and  die  again.  Meanwhile  the  gray  pall  of  cloud  parted  in 
the  west,  disclosing  spaces  of  faint  yet  clearest  blue,  and  the 
declining  sun,  from  behind  dim  islands  of  shifting  vapour,  sent 
forth  immense  rays  of  mild  and  misty  light. 

Richard  laughed  involuntarily  to  himself.  For  there  was  a 
fantastic,  curiously  alluring  influence  in  all  this.  It  spoke  to 
him  as  in  delicate  persuasion.  His  sense  of  expectation  in- 
tensified. He  would  not  ride  homeward  and  shut  himself 
within  four  walls  just  yet ;  but  yield  himself  to  the  wooing  of 
these  fair  sylvan  divinities;  to  that  of  the  spirit  of  the  even- 
ing wind,  of  the  softly  shrouding  haze,  and  of  the  broadening 
sunlight,  a  little  longer. 

A  turf-ride  branches  away  to  the  left,  leading  along  a  narrow 
outstanding  spur  of  table-land  to  a  summer-house,  the  prospect 
from  which  is  among  the  noted  beauties  of  Brockhurst.  This 
summer-house  or  Temple,  as  it  has  come  to  be  called.  Is  an 
octagonal  structure.  Round-shafted  pillars  rise  at  each  pro- 
jecting angle.  In  the  recesses  between  them  are  low  stone 
benches,  save  in  front  where  an  open  colonnade  gives  upon 
the  view.  The  roof  is  leaded,  and  surmounted  by  a  wooden 
ball  and  tall,  three-sided  spike.  These  last,  as  well  as  the 
plastered,  windowless  walls  are  painted  white.  Within,  the 
hollow  of  the  dome  is  decorated  in  fresco,  with  groups  of  gaily 
clad  ladies  and  their  attendant  cavaliers,  with  errant  cupids, 
garlands  of  flowers,  trophies  of  rather  impossible  musical  in- 
struments, and  cages  full  of  imprisoned,  and  therefore  doubt- 


194  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

less  very  naughty,  loves.  The  colours  have  grown  faint  by 
action  of  insweeping  wind  and  weather;  but  this  lends  a 
pathos  to  the  light-hearted,  highly-artificial  art,  emphasising  the 
contrast  between  it  and  its  immediate  surroundings. 

For  the  Temple  stands  on  a  platform  of  turf  at  the  extreme 
point  of  the  spur  of  table-land.  The  hillside,  clothed  with 
heather  and  bracken,  fringed  lower  down  with  a  coppice  of 
delicate  birches,  falls  steeply  away  in  front  and  on  either  hand. 
Outstretched  below,  besides  the  panorama  of  the  great  woods, 
lies  all  the  country  about  Farley,  on  to  Westchurch,  and  beyond 
again — pasture  and  cornlands,  scattered  hamlets  and  red-roofed 
farms  half-hidden  among  trees,  the  glint  of  streams  set  in  the 
vivid  green  of  water-meadows,  and  soft  blue  range  behind 
range  of  distance  to  that  pale  uprising  of  chalk  down  in  the 
far  south.  Upon  the  right,  some  quarter  of  a  mile  away, 
blocking  the  end  of  an  avenue  of  ancient  Scotch  firs,  the 
eastern  facade  of  Brockhurst  House  shows  planted  proudly 
upon  the  long  gray  and  red  lines  of  the  terrace. 

Richard  checked  his  horse,  pausing  to  look  for  a  moment  at 
that  well-beloved  home.  Then  musing,  he  let  his  horse  go 
forward  along  the  level  turf-ride.  The  glistering,  gray  dome 
and  white  columns  of  the  Temple  standing  out  against  the 
spacious  prospect — the  growing  brightness  of  this  last,  still 
chastened  by  the  delicious  autumn  haze— captivated  his  im- 
agination. There  was,  seen  thus,  a  simplicity  and  distinction 
altogether  classic  in  the  lonely  building.  To  him  it  appeared  not 
unfit  shrine  for  the  worship  of  that  same  all-pervasive  spirit  of 
mystery,  not  unfit  spot  for  the  revelation  of  that  same  glad,  yet 
cunningly  elusive  secret,  of  which  he  suff'ercd  the  so  fond 
obsession. 

And  so  it  was  that  when,  coming  abreast  of  the  building, 
the  sound  of  young  voices — women's  voices — and  finely 
modulated  laughter  saluted  his  ear,  though  startled  for  no 
stranger  had  the  right  of  entry  to  the  park,  he  was  by  no 
means  displeased.  This  seemed  but  part  of  the  all-pervasive 
magic  of  this  strange  afternoon.  Richard  smiled  at  the 
phantasies  of  his  own  mood  •,  yet  he  forgot  to  be  shy,  forgot 
the  distressing  self-consciousness  which  made  him  shrink  from 
the  observation  of  strangers — specially  those  of  the  other  sex. 
The  adventure  tempted  his  fancy.  Even  familiar  things  had 
put  on   a  new  and  beguiling  vesture  in  the  last  half  hour,  so 


LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERCI  195 

there  were  miracles  abroad,  perhaps.  Anyhow  he  would  satisfy 
himself  as  to  the  aspect  of  those  sweet  voiced  and,  as  yet,  un- 
seen trespassers.  He  let  his  horse  go  forward  slowly  across 
the  platform  of  turf. 


CHAPTER  III 

IN    WHICH    RICHARD   CONFIRMS    ONE  JUDGMENT  AND  REVERSES 

ANOTHER 

t-XOW  magnificently  your  imagination  gallops  when  it 
once  gets  agoing.  Here  you  are  bearing  away  the 
spoils,  when  the  siege  is  not  yet  even  begun — never  will  be,  I 
venture  to  hope,  for  I  doubt  if  this  would  be  a  very  honour- 
able   " 

The  speaker  broke  ofF  abruptly,  as  the  shadow  of  horse  and 
rider  lengthened  upon  the  turf.  And,  during  the  silence 
which  followed,  Richard  Calmady  received  an  impression  at 
once  arresting  and  subtly  disquieting. 

A  young  lady,  of  about  his  own  age,  leaned  against  one  of 
the  white  pillars  of  the  colonnade.  Her  attitude  and  costume 
were  alike  slightly  unconventional.  She  was  unusually  tall, 
and  there  was  a  lazy,  almost  boyish  indifference  and  grace  in 
the  pose  of  her  supple  figure  and  the  gallant  carriage  of  her 
small  head.  She  wore  a  straight,  pale  gray-green  jacket,  into 
the  pockets  of  which  her  hands  were  thrust.  Her  skirt,  of  the 
same  colour  and  material,  hung  in  straight  folds  to  her  feet, 
being  innocent  alike  of  trimming  and  the  then  prevailing 
fashion  of  crinoline.  Further,  she  wore  a  little,  round  mata- 
dor's hat,  three  black  pompons  planted  audaciously  upstanding 
above  the  left  ear.  Her  eyes,  long  in  shape  and  set  under 
straight,  observant  brows,  appeared  at  first  sight  of  the  same 
clear,  light,  warm  brown  as  her  hair.  Her  nose  was  straight, 
rather  short,  and  delicately  square  at  the  tip.  While  her  face, 
unlined,  serenely,  indeed  triumphantly  youthful,  was  quite 
colourless  and  sufficiently  thin  to  disclose  fine  values  of  bone 
in  the  broad  forehead  and  the  cutting  of  jaw  and  check  and 
chin. 

In  that  silence,  as  she  and  Richard  Calmady  looked  full  at 


196  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

one  another,  he  apprehended  in  her  a  baffling  element,  a  some- 
thing untamed  and  remote,  a  freedom  of  soul,  that  declared 
itself  alike  in  the  gallantries  and  severities  of  her  dress,  her 
attitude,  and  all  the  lines  of  her  person.  She  bore  relation  to 
the  glad  mystery  haunting  the  fair  autumn  evening.  She  also 
bore  relation  to  the  chill  haunting  the  stream-side  and  the 
deep  places  of  the  woods.  And  her  immediate  action  em- 
phasised this  last  likeness  in  his  mind.  When  he  first  beheld 
her  she  was  bright,  with  a  certain  teasing  insouciance.  Then, 
for  a  minute,  even  more,  she  stood  at  gaze,  as  a  hind  does 
suddenly  startled  on  the  edge  of  the  covert — her  head  raised, 
her  face  keen  with  inquiry.  Her  expression  changed,  became 
serious,  almost  stern.  She  recoiled,  as  in  pain,  as  in  an  ap- 
proach to  fear — this  strong,  nymphlike  creature. 

"  Helen,"  she  called  aloud,  in  tones  of  mingled  protest  and 
warning.  And  thereupon,  without  more  ado,  she  retired,  nay, 
fled,  into  the  sheltering,  sun-warmed  interior  of  the  Temple. 

At  this  summons  her  companion,  who  until  now  had  stood 
contemplating  the  wide  view  from  the  extreme  verge  of  the 
platform,  wheeled  round.  For  an  appreciable  time  she,  too, 
looked  at  Richard  Calmady,  and  that  haughtily  enough,  as 
though  he,  rather  than  she,  was  the  intruder.  Her  glance 
traveled  unflinchingly  dowm  from  his  bare  head  and  broad 
shoulders  to  that  pocket-like  appendage — as  of  old-fashioned 
pistol  holsters — on  either  side  his  saddle.  Swiftly  her  bearing 
changed.  She  uttered  an  exclamation  of  unfeigned  and  un- 
alloyed satisfaction — a  little  joyful  outcry,  such  as  a  child  will 
make  on  discovery  of  some  lost  treasure. 

"  Ah  !  it  is  you — you,"  she  said,  laughing  softly,  while  she 
moved  forward,  both  hands  extended.  Which  hand,  by  the 
same  token,  she  proposed  to  bestow  on  Dickie  remained  mat- 
ter for  conjecture,  since  in  the  one  she  carried  a  parasol  with  a 
stafF-like  gold  and  tortoise-shell  handle  to  it,  and  in  the  other, 
between  the  first  and  second  fingers,  a  cigarette,  the  blue 
smoke  of  which  curled  upward  in  transparent  spirals  upon  the 
clear,  still  air. 

As  the  lady  of  the  gray-green  gown  retired  precipitately 
within  the  Temple,  a  wave  of  hot  blood  passed  over  Richard's 
body.  For  notwithstanding  his  three-and-twenty  years,  his 
not  contemptible  mastery  of  many  matters,  and  that  same 
honourable  appointment  of  Justice  of  the  Peace  for  the  county 


LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERCI  197 

of  Southampton,  he  was  but  a  lad  yet,  with  all  a  lad's  quick- 
ness of  sensitive  shame  and  burning  resentment.  The  girl's 
repulsion  had  been  obvious — that  instinctive  repulsion,  as  poor 
Dickie's  too  acute  sympathies  assured  him,  of  the  whole  for 
the  maimed,  of  the  free  for  the  bound,  of  the  artist  for  some 
jarring  colour  or  sound  which  mars  an  otherwise  entrancing 
harmony.  And  the  smart  of  all  this  was,  to  him,  doubly 
salted  by  the  fact  that  he,  after  all,  was  a  man,  his  critic 
merely  a  woman.  The  bitter  mood  of  the  earlier  hours  of  the 
day  returned  upon  him.  He  cursed  himself  for  a  doting  fool. 
Who  was  he,  indeed,  to  seek  revelation  of  glad  secrets,  cherish 
fair  dreams  and  tempt  adventures  ? 

Consequently  it  fell  out  when  that  other  lady — she  of  the 
cigarette — advanced  thus  delightfully  towards  him,  Richard's 
face  was  white  with  anger,  and  his  lips  rigid  with  pain — a 
rigidity  begotten  of  the  determination  that  they  should  not 
tremble  in  altogether  too  unmanly  fashion.  Sometimes  it  is 
very  sad  to  be  young.  The  fiesh  is  still  very  tender,  so  that  a 
scratch  hurts  more  than  a  sword-thrust  later.  Only,  let  it  be 
remembered,  the  scratch  heals  readily  ;  while  of  the  sword- 
thrust  we  die,  even  though  at  the  moment  of  receiving  it  we 
seem  not  so  greatly  to  suffer.  And  unquestionably  as  Dickie 
sat  there,  on  his  handsome  horse,  hat  in  hand,  looking  down 
at  the  lady  of  the  cigarette,  the  hurt  of  that  lately  received 
scratch  began  quite  sensibly  to  lessen.  For  her  eyes,  their 
first  unsparing  scrutiny  accomplished,  rested  on  his  with  a 
strangely  flattering  and  engaging  insistence. 

"  But  this  is  the  very  prettiest  piece  of  good  fortune  !  "  she 
exclaimed.  "  Had  I  arranged  the  v/hole  matter  to  suit  my 
own  fancy  it  could  not  have  turned  out  more  happily." 

Her  tone  was  that  of  convincing  sincerity ;  while,  as  she 
spoke,  the  soft  colour  came  and  went  in  her  cheeks,  and  her 
lips  parting  showed  little,  even  teeth  daintily  precious  as  a  row 
of  pearls.  The  outline  of  her  face  was  remarkably  pure — in 
shape  an  oval,  a  trifle  wide  in  proportion  to  its  length.  Her 
eyebrows  were  arched,  the  eyelids  arched  also — very  thin, 
showing  the  movement  of  the  eyeballs  beneath  them,  droop- 
mg  slightly,  with  a  sweep  of  dark  lashes  at  the  outer  corner. 
It  struck  Richard  that  she  bore  a  certain  resemblance  to  his 
mother,  though  smaller  and  slighter  in  build.  Her  mouth  was 
less  full,  her  hair  fairer — soft,  glistening  hair  of  ail  the  many 


198  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

shades  of  heather  honey-comb,  broken  wax  and  sweet,  heady 
liquor  alike.  Her  hands,  he  remarked,  were  very  finished — 
the  fingers  pointed,  the  palms  rosy.  The  set  of  her  black, 
velvet  coat  revealed  the  roundness  of  her  bust.  The  broad 
brim  of  her  large,  black  hat,  slightly  upturned  at  the  sides, 
and  with  sweeping  ostrich  plumes  as  trimming  to  it,  threw 
the  upper  part  of  her  charming  face  into  soft  shadow.  Her 
heavy,  dove-coloured,  silk  skirts  stood  out  stiffly  from  her  waist, 
declaring  its  slenderness.  The  few  jewels  she  wore  were  of 
notable  value.  Her  appearance,  in  fact,  spoke  the  last  word 
of  contemporary  fashion  in  its  most  refined  application.  She 
was  a  great  lady,  who  knew  the  world  and  the  worth  of  it. 
And  she  was  absolute  mistress  both  of  that  knowledge,  and  of 
herself — notwithstanding  those  outstretched  hands,  and  outcry 
of  childlike  pleasure, — there,  perhaps,  lay  the  exquisite  flat- 
tery of  this  last  to  her  hearer !  She  was  all  this,  and  some- 
thing more  than  all  this.  Something  for  which  Dickie,  his 
heart  still  virgin,  had  no  name  as  yet.  It  was  new  to  his  ex- 
perience. A  something  clear,  simple,  and  natural,  as  the 
sunlight,  and  yet  infinitely  subtle.  A  something  ravishing,  so 
that  you  wanted  to  draw  it  very  close,  hold  it,  devour  it.  Yet 
something  you  so  feared,  you  needs  must  put  it  from  you,  so 
that,  faint  with  ecstasy,  standing  at  a  distance,  you  might  bow 
yourself  and  humbly  worship.  But  such  extravagant  exercises 
being,  in  the  nature  of  his  case,  physically  as  well  as  socially 
inadmissible,  the  young  man  was  constrained  to  remain  seated 
squarely  in  the  saddle — that  singularly  ungainly  saddle,  more- 
over, with  holster-like  appendages  to  it — while  he  watched 
her,  wholly  charmed,  curious  and  shy,  carried  indeed  a  little 
out  of  himself,  waiting  for  her  to  make  further  disclosures, 
since  he  felt  absurdly  slow  and  unready  of  speech. 

Nor  was  he  destined  to  wait  in  vain.  The  fair  lady  ap- 
peared agreeably  ready  to  declare  herself,  and  that  with  the 
finest  turns  of  voice  and  manner,  with  the  most  coercive  va- 
riety of  appeal,  pathos,  caprice,  and  dignity. 

"I  know  on  the  face  of  it  I  have  not  the  smallest  right  to 
have  taken  possession  in  this  way,"  she  continued.  "  It  is  the 
frankest  impertinence.  But  if  you  realised  how  extremely  I 
am  enjoying  myself,  you  could  not  fail  to  forgive  me.  All 
this  park  of  yours,  all  this  nature,"  she  turned  sideways, 
sketching  out  the  great  view  with  a  broad  gesture  of  the  cigar- 


LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERCI  199 

ette  and  graceful  hand  that  held  it,  "  all  this  is  divinely  lovely. 
It  is  wiser  to  possess  oneself  of  it  in  an  illicit  manner,  to  defy 
the  minor  social  proprieties  and  unblushingly  to  steal,  than 
not  to  possess  oneself  of  it  at  all.  If  you  are  really  hungry, 
you  knovi^,  you  learn  not  to  be  too  nice  as  to  the  ways  and 
means  of  acquiring  sustenance." 

"  And  you  were  really  hungry  ?  "  Richard  found  himself 
saying,  as  he  feared  rather  blunderingly.  But  he  wanted,  so 
anxiously,  the  present  to  remain  the  present — wanted  to  con- 
tinue to  watch  her,  and  to  hear  her.  She  turned  his  head. 
How  then  could  he  behave  otherwise  than  with  stupidity  ? 

"  La !  la !  *'  she  replied,  laughing  indulgently,  and  thereby 
enchanting  him  still  more  ;  "  what  must  your  experience  of 
life  be  if  you  suppose  one  gets  a  full  meal  of  divine  loveliness 
every  day  in  the  week  ?  For  my  part,  I  am  not  troubled  with 
any  such  celestial  plethora,  believe  me.  I  was  ravening,  I  tell 
you,  positively  ravening." 

"  And  your  hunger  is  satisfied  ?  "  he  asked,  still  as  he  feared 
blunderingly,  and  with  a  queer  inward  movement  of  envy  to- 
wards the  wide  view  she  looked  upon,  and  the  glory  of  the  sun- 
set which  dared  touch  her  hair. 

"  Satisfied  ?  "  she  exclaimed.  "  Is  one's  hunger  for  the  di- 
vinely lovely  ever  satisfied  ?  Just  now  I  have  stayed  mine 
with  the  merest  mouthful — as  one  snatches  a  sandwich  at  a 
railway  buffet.  And  directly  I  must  get  into  the  train  again, 
and  go  on  with  my  noisy,  dusty,  stifling  journey.  Ah  !  you 
are  very  fortunate  to  live  in  this  adorable  and  restful  place ;  to 
see  it  in  all  its  fine  drama  of  changing  colour  and  season,  year 
in  and  year  out." 

She  dropped  the  end  of  her  cigarette  into  a  little  sandy  de- 
pression in  the  turf,  and  drawing  aside  her  silken  skirts,  trod 
out  the  red  heart  of  it  neatly  with  her  daintily  shod  foot.  Just 
then  the  other  lady,  she  of  the  gray-green  gown,  came  from 
within  the  shelter  of  the  Temple,  and  stood  between  the  white 
pillars  of  the  colonnade.  Dick's  grasp  tightened  on  the  han- 
dle of  the  hunting-crop  lying  across  his  thigh. 

"Am  I  so  very  fortunate  ?  "  he  said,  almost  involuntarily. 

His  companion  looked  up,  smiling,  her  eyes  dwelling  on  his 
with  a  strange  effect  of  intimacy,  wholly  flattering,  wholly,  in- 
deed, distracting  to  common  sense. 

"  Yes — you  are  fortunate/'  she  answered,  speaking  slowly,. 


200  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

"And  some  day,  Richard,  I  think  you  will  come  to  know 
that." 

Sudden  comprehension,  sudden  recognition  struck  the  young 
man — very  literally  struck  him  a  most  unwelcome  buffet. 

'*•  Oh  !  I  see — I  understand,"  he  exclaimed,  "  you  are  my 
cousin — you  are  Madame  de  Vallorbes." 

For  a  moment  his  sense  of  disappointment  was  so  keen,  he 
was  minded  to  turn  his  horse  and  incontinently  ride  away. 
The  misery  of  that  episode  of  his  boyhood  set  its  tooth  wcrj 
shrewdly  in  him  even  yet.  It  seemed  the  most  cruelly  iron- 
ical turn  of  fate  that  this  entrancing,  this  altogether  worship- 
ful, stranger  should  prove  to  be  one  and  the  same  as  the  little 
dancer  of  long  ago  with  blush-roses  in  her  hat. 

But  though  the  colour  deepened  somewhat  in  the  lady's 
cheeks,  she  did  not  lower  her  eyes,  nor  did  they  lose  their 
smiling  importunity.  A  little  ardour,  indeed,  heightened  the 
charm  of  her  manner — an  ardour  of  delicate  battle,  as  of  one 
whose  honour  has  been  ever  so  slightly  touched. 

"  Certainly,  I  am  your  cousin,  Helen  de  Vallorbes,"  she  re- 
plied. "  You  are  not  sorry  for  that,  Richard,  are  you  ?  At 
this  moment  I  am  increasingly  glad  to  be  your  cousin — though 
not  perhaps  so  very  particularly  glad  to  be  Helen  de  Vallorbes." 
Then  she  added,  rapidly : — "  We  are  here  in  England  for  a  few 
weeks,  my  father  and  I.  Troublesome,  distressing  things  had 
happened,  and  he  perceived  I  needed  change.  He  brought  me 
away.  London  proved  a  desert  and  a  dust-heap.  There  was 
no  solace,  no  distraction  from  unpleasant  thoughts  to  be  found 
there.  So  we  telegraphed  and  came  down  last  night  to  the 
kind  people  at  Newlands.  Naturally  my  father  wanted  to  see 
Aunt  Katherine.  I  desired  to  see  her  also,  well  understood, 
for  I  have  heard  so  much  of  her  talent  and  her  great  beauty. 
But  I  knew  they — the  brother  and  sister — would  wish  to  speak 
pf  the  past  and  find  their  happiness  in  being  very  sad  about  it 
rail.  At  our  age  —yours  and  mine — the  sadness  of  any  past 
one  may  possess  is  a  good  deal  too  present  with  one  still  to  af- 
ford in  the  least  consoling  subject  of  conversation."  Madame 
de  Vallorbes  spoke  with  a  certain  vehemence.  ^'  Don't  you 
jhink  so,  Richard  ?  "  she  demanded. 

And  Richard  could  but  answer,  very  much  out  of  his  heart, 
that  he  did  indeed  think  so. 

She  observed  him  a  moment,  and  then  her  tone  softened* 


LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERCI  201 

The  colour  deepened  yet  more  in  her  cheeks.  She  became  at 
once  prettily  embarrassed  and  prettily  sincere. 

"  And  then,  to  tell  you  quite  the  truth,  I  am  a  trifle  afraid 
of  Aunt  [Catherine.  I  have  always  wanted  to  come  here  and 
to  see  you,  but — it  is  an  absurd  confession  to  make — I  have 
been  scared  at  the  idea  of  meeting  Aunt  Katherine,  and  that  is 
the  real  reason  why  I  made  Honoria  take  refuge  with  me  in 
this  lovely  park  of  yours,  instead  of  going  on  with  my  father 
to  the  house.  There  is  a  legend,  a  thrice  accursed  legend  in 
our  family, — my  mother  employs  it  even  yet  when  she  pro- 
poses to  reduce  me  to  salutary  depths  of  humility — that  I 
came, — she  brought  me — here,  once,  long  ago,  when  I  was  a 
child,  and  that  I  was  fiendishly  naughty,  that  I  behaved 
odiously." 

Madame  de  Vallorbes  stretched  out  her  hands,  presenting 
the  rosy  palms  of  them  in  the  most  engaging  manner. 

"  But  it  can't — it  can't  be  true,"  sh'"  protested.  "  Why,  in 
the  name  of  all  folly,  let  alone  all  common  decency,  should  I 
behave  odiously  ?  It  is  not  like  me.  I  love  to  please,  I  love 
to  have  people  care  for  me.  And  so  I  cannot  but  believe  the 
legend  is  the  malign  invention  of  some  nurse  or  governess, 
whom,  poor  woman,  I  probably  plagued  handsomely  enough 
in  her  day,  and  who,  in  revenge,  rigged  up  this  detestable 
rscarecrow  with  which  to  frighten  me.  Then,  moreover,  I 
have  not  the  faintest  recollection  of  the  affair,  and  one  gener- 
ally has  an  only  too  vivid  memory  of  one's  ov/n  sins.  Surely, 
mon  cher  cousin^  surely  I  am  innocent  in  your  sight,  as  in  my 
own  ?     You  do  not  remember  the  episode  either  ?  " 

Whereupon  Dickie,  looking  down  at  her, — and  still  en- 
chanted notwithstanding  his  so  sinister  discovery,  being  first, 
and  always  a  gentleman,  and  secondly,  though  as  yet  uncon- 
sciously, a  lover, — proceeded  to  lie  roundly.  Lied,  too,  with 
a  notable  cheerfulness,  born  as  cheerfulness  needs  must  be  of 
€very  act  of  faith  and  high  generosity. 

"  I  remember  it  ?  Of  course  not,"  he  said.  "  So  let  the 
legend  be  abolished  henceforth  and  forevermore.  Here,  once 
and  for  all,  Cousin  Helen,  we  combine  to  pull  dov/n  and  bury 
that  scarecrow." 

Madame  de  Vallorbes  clapped  her  hands  softly  and  laughed. 
And  her  laughter,  having  the  merit  of  being  perfectly  genuine 
— for  the  young  man  very  really  pleased  her  fancy — was  like- 


202  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

wise  very  infectious.  Richard  found  himself  laughing  too,  he 
knew  not  why,  save  that  he  was  glad  of  heart. 

"  And  now  that  matter  being  satisfactorily  disposed  of,  you 
will  come  to  Brockhurst  often,"  he  said.  It  seemed  to  him 
that  a  certain  joyous  equality  had  been  established  between 
him  and  his  divinity,  both  by  his  repudiation  of  all  former 
knowledge  of  her,  and  by  their  moment  of  laughter.  He  be- 
gan fearlessly  to  make  her  little  offerings.  "  Do  you  care 
about  riding  ?  I  am  afraid  there  is  not  much  to  amuse  you  at 
Brockhurst ;  but  there  are  always  plenty  of  horses." 

"  And  I  adore  horses." 

"  Do  you  care  about  racing  ?  We've  some  rather  pretty 
things  in  training  this  year,  I  should  like  awfully  to  show 
them  to  you." 

But  here  the  conversation,  just  setting  forth  in  so  agreeable 
a  fashion,  suffered  interruption.  For  the  other  lady,  she  of  the 
gray-green  gown,  sauntered  forward  from  the  Temple.  The 
carriage  of  her  head  was  gallant,  her  air  nonchalant  as  ever ;  but 
her  expression  was  grave,  and  the  delicate  thinness  of  her  face 
appeared  a  trifle  accentuated.  She  came  up  to  Madame  de  Val- 
lorbes  and  passed  her  hand  through  the  latter's  arm  caressingly. 

"  You  know,  really,  Helen,  we  ought  to  go,  if  we  are  not 
to  keep  your  father  and  the  carriage  waiting." — Then  she 
looked  up  with  a  certain  determined  effort  at  Richard  Cal- 
mady.  "  We  promised  to  meet  Mr.  Ormiston  at  the  first 
park  gate,"  she  added  in  explana-'on.  "  That  is  nearly  a  mile 
from  here,  isn't  it  ?  " 

"  About  three-quarters — hardly  that,"  he  answered.  Her 
eyes  were  not  brown,  he  perceived,  but  a  clear,  dim  green,  as 
the  soft  gloom  in  the  under-spaces  of  a  grove  of  ilexes.  They 
affected  him  as  fearlessly  observant — eyes  that  could  judge 
both  men  and  things  and  could  also  keep  their  own  counsel. 

"  Will  you  give  your  mother  Honoria  St.  Quentin's  love, 
please,"  she  went  on.  "  I  stayed  here  with  her  for  a  couple 
of  days  the  year  before  last,  while  you  were  at  Oxford.  She 
was  very  good  to  me.     Now,  Helen,  come " 

"  I  shall  see  you  again,"  Richard  cried  to  the  lady  of  the 
cigarette.  But  his  horse,  which  for  some  minutes  had  been 
increasingly  fidgety,  backed  away  down  the  hillside,  and  he 
could  not  catch  the  purport  of  her  answer.  To  the  lady  of 
the  gray-green  gown  and  eyes  he  said  nothing  at  all. 


LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERCI  203 


CHAPTER  IV 

JULIUS    MARCH    BEARS    TESTIMONY 

SO  you  really  wish  me  to  ask  them  both  to  come,  Rich- 
ard ?  " 
Lady  Calmady  stood  on  the  tiger-skin  before  the  Gun- 
Room  hearth.  Upon  the  said  hearth  a  merry,  little  fire  of 
pine  logs  clicked  and  chattered.  Even  here,  on  the  dry  up- 
land, the  night  air  had  an  edge  to  it;  while  in  the  valleys 
there  would  be  frost  before  morning,  ripening  that  same  splen- 
dour of  autumn  foliage  alike  to  greater  glory  and  swifter  fall. 
And  the  snap  in  the  air,  working  along  with  other  unwonted 
influences,  made  Katherine  somewhat  restless  this  evening. 
Her  eyes  were  dark  with  unspoken  thought.  Her  voice  had 
a  ring  in  it.  The  shimmering,  black,  satin  dress  and  fine  lace 
she  wore  gave  a  certain  magnificence  to  her  appearance.  Her 
whole  being  was  vibrant.  She  was  rather  dangerously  alive. 
Her  elder  brother's  unlooked-for  advent  had  awakened  her 
strangely  from  the  reserve  and  stately  monotony  of  her  daily 
existence,  had  shaken  even,  for  the  moment,  the  completeness 
of  the  dominion  of  her  fixed  idea.  She  ceased,  for  the  mo- 
ment, to  sink  the  whole  of  her  personality  in  the  maternal 
relationship.  Memories  of  her  youth,  passed  amid  the  varied 
interests  of  society  and  of  the  literary  and  political  world  of 
Paris  and  London,  assailed  her.  All  those  other  Katherines, 
in  short,  whom  she  might  have  been,  and  who  had  seemed  to 
drop  away  from  her,  vanishing  phantom-like  before  the  uncom- 
promising realities  of  her  husband's  death  and  her  child's 
birth,  crowded  about  her,  importuning  her  with  vague  desires, 
vague  regrets.  The  confines  of  Brockhurst  grew  narrow, 
while  all  that  which  lay  beyond  them  called  to  her.  She 
craved,  almost  unconsciously,  a  wider  sphere  of  action.  She 
longed  to  obtain,  and  to  lend  a  hand  in  the  shaping  of  events 
and  making  of  history.  Even  the  purest  and  most  devoted 
among  women — possessing  the  doubtful  blessing  of  a  measure 
of  intellect — are  subject  to  such  vagrant  heats,  such  uprisings 


204  SIR  RICHARD  CaLMADY 

of  personal  ambition,  specially  during  the  dangerous  decade 
when  the  nine-and-thirtieth  year  is  past. 

Meanwhile  Richard's  answer  to  her  question  v/as  un- 
fortunately somewhat  over-long  in  coming,  for  the  young  man 
was  sunk  in  meditation  and  apparently  oblivious  of  her  pres- 
ence. He  leaned  back  in  the  long,  low  armchair,  his  hands 
clasped  behind  his  head,  the  embroidered  rug  drawn  about  his 
waist,  a  venerable,  yellow-edged,  calf-bound  volume  lying  face 
downwards  on  his  lap.  While  young  Camp  —  young  no 
longer,  full  of  years  indeed  beyond  the  allotted  portion  of  his 
kind — reposed,  outstretched  and  snoring,  on  the  all-too-wide 
space  of  rug  and  chair-seat  at  his  feet.  And  this  indifference, 
both  of  man  and  dog,  grew  irksome  to  Lady  Calmady.  She 
moved  across  the  shining  yellow  and  black  surface  of  the 
tiger-skin  and  straightened  the  bronzes  of  Vinedresser  and 
Lazy  Lad  standing  on  the  high  chimneypiece. 

"  My  dear,  it  grows  late,''  she  said.  "  Let  us  settle  this 
matter.  If  your  uncle  and  cousin  are  to  come,  I  must  send 
a  note  over  to  Newlands  to-morrow  before  breakfast.  Re- 
member I  have  no  choice  in  the  matter.  I  leave  it  entirely  to 
you.     Tell  me  seriously  what  you  wish." 

Richard  stretched  himself,  turning  his  head  in  the  hollow 
of  his  hands,  and  shrugged  his  shoulders  slightly. 

"  That  is  exactly  what  I  would  thank  you  so  heartily  to  tell 
me,"  he  answered.  "  Do  I,  or  don't  I  seriously  wish  it  ?  I 
give  you  my  word,  mother,  I  don't  know." 

"  Oh  ;  but,  my  dearest,  that  is  folly  !  You  must  have  in- 
clination enough,  one  way  or  the  other,  to  come  to  a  decision. 
I  was  careful  not  to  commit  myself.  It  is  still  easy  not  to 
ask  them  without  being  guilty  of  any  discourtesy." 

"  It  isn't  that,"  Richard  said.  "  It  is  simply  that  being 
anything  but  heroic  I  am  trying  of  two  evils  to  choose  the 
least.  I  should  like  to  have  my  uncle — and  Helen  here  im- 
mensely. But  If  the  visit  wasn't  a  success  I  should  be  pro- 
portionately disappointed  and  vexed.  So  is  it  worth  the  risk  f 
Disappointments  are  sufficiently  abundant  anyhow.  Isn't  it 
slightly  imbecile  to  run  a  wholly  gratuitous  risk  of  adding  to 
their  number  ?  " 

Then  the  fixed  idea  began  stealthily,  yet  surely,  to  reassert 
its  dominion ;  for  there  was  a  perceptible  flavour  of  discour- 
agement in  the  young  man's  speech. 


LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERCI  205 

*^ Dickie,  there  is  nothing  wrong,  is  there, — nothing  the 
matter,  to-night  ?  " 

"  Oh,  dear  no,  of  course  not !  "  he  answered,  half  closing 
his  eyes.     "  Nothing  in  the  world's  the  matter." 

He  unclasped  his  hands,  leaned  forward  and  patted  the  bull- 
dog lying  across  the  rug  at  his  feet.  "  At  least  nothing  more 
than  usual,  nothing  more  than  the  abiding  something  which 
always  has  been  and  always  will  be  the  matter," 

"  Ah,  my  dear  !  "  Katherine  cried  softly. 

"I've  just  been  reading  Burton's  Anatomy  here,"  he  went 
on  bending  down,  so  that  his  face  was  hidden,  while  he  pulled 
the  dog's  soft  ears.  "  He  assures  all — whom  it  may  concern 
— that  '  bodily  imperfections  do  not  a  whit  blemish  the  soul 
or  hinder  the  operations  of  it,  but  rather  help  and  much  in- 
crease it.'  There,  Camp,  poor  old  man,  don't  start — it's 
nothing  worse  than  me.  I  wonder  if  the  elaborate  pains 
which  have  been  taken  through  generations  of  your  ancestors 
to  breed  you  into  your  existing  and  very  royal  hideousness — 
your  flattened  nose  and  perpetual  grin,  for  instance — do  help 
and  much  increase  the  operations  of  your  soul !  " 

He  looked  up  suddenly. 

"  What  do  you  think,  mother  ?  " 

"I  think — think,  my  darling,"  she  said,  "that  perhaps 
neither  you  nor  I  are  quite  ourselves  to-night." 

"  Oh,  well  I've  had  rather  a  beastly  day  ! "  Richard 
dropped  back  against  the  chair  cushions  again,  clasping  his 
hands  behind  his  head.  "  Or  I've  seemed  to  have  it,  which 
comes  practically  to  much  the  same  thing.  I  confess  I  have 
been  rather  hipped  lately.  I  suppose  it's  the  weather. 
You're  not  really  in  a  hurry,  mother,  are  you  ?  Come  and  sit 
down." 

And  obediently  Katherine  drew  forward  a  chair  and  sat 
beside  him.  Those  uprisings  of  vagrant  desire  still  struggled, 
combating  the  dominion  of  the  fixed  idea.  But  the  struggle 
grew  faint  and  fainter.  And  then,  for  a  measurable  time, 
Richard  fell  silent  again  while  she  waited.  Verily  there  is  no 
sharper  discipline  for  a  woman's  proud  spirit,  than  that  ad- 
ministered, often  quite  unconsciously,  by  the  man  whom  she 
loves. 

"  We  gave  a  wretched  girl  six  weeks  to-day  for  robbing  her 
mistress,"  he  remarked  at  last.     "  It  was  a  flagrant  case,  so  I 


2o6  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

suppose  we  were  justified.  In  fact  I  don't  see  how  we  could 
have  done  otherwise.  But  it  went  against  me  awfully,  all  the 
same.  She  has  a  child  to  support.  Jim  Gould  got  her  into 
trouble  and  deserted  her,  like  a  cowardly,  young  blackguard. 
However,  it's  easy  to  be  righteous  at  another  person's  expense. 
Perhaps  I  should  have  done  the  same  in  his  place.  I  wonder 
if  I  should  ?  "— 

"  My  dear,  we  need  hardly  discuss  that  point,  I  think," 
Lady  Calmady  said. 

Richard  turned  his  head  and  smiled  at  her. 

"  Poor  dear  mother,  do  I  bore  you  ?  But  it  is  so  comfort- 
able to  grumble.  I  know  it's  selfish.  It's  a  horrid  bad 
habit,  and  you  ought  to  blow  me  up  for  it.  But  then, 
mother,  take  it  all  round,  really  I  don't  grumble  much,  do  I  ?  " 

"  No,  no  !  "  Katherine  said  quickly.  ^'  Indeed,  Dickie, 
you  don't." 

"  I  have  been  awfully  afraid  though,  lately,  that  I  do  grumble 
more  than  I  imagine,"  he  went  on,  straightening  his  head, 
while  his  handsome  profile  showed  clear  cut  against  the  danc- 
ing brightness  of  the  firelight.  "  But  it's  almost  impossible 
always  to  carry  something  about  with  you  which — which  you 
hate,  and  not  let  it  infect  your  attitude  of  mind  and,  in  a  de- 
gree, your  speech.  Twenty  or  thirty  years  hence  it  may 
prove  altogether  sufficient  and  satisfactory  to  know  " — his  lips 
worked,  obliging  him  to  enunciate  his  words  carefully  — 
"that  bodily  imperfections  do  not  a  whit  blemish  the  soul  or 
hinder  its  operations — are,  in  short,  an  added  means  of  grace. 
Think  of  it  !  Isn't  it  a  nice,  neat,  little  arrangement,  sort  of 
spiritual  consolation  stakes  !  Only  I'm  afraid  I'm  some  two 
or  three  decades  on  the  near  side  of  that  comfortable  conclu- 
sion yet,  and  I  find " 

Richard  shifted  his  position,  letting  his  arms  drop  along  the 
chair  arms  with  a  little  thud.  He  smiled  again,  or  at  all 
events  essayed  to  do  so. 

"  In  fact,  I  find  it's  beastly  difficult  to  care  a  hang  about 
your  soul,  one  way  or  another,  when  you  clearly  perceive  your 
body's  making  you  the  laughing-stock  of  half  the  people — 
why,  mother,  sweet  dear  mother, — what  is  it  ?  " 

For  Lady  Calmady's  tv/o  hands  had  closed  down  on  his 
hand,  and  she  bowed  herself  above  them  as  though  smitten 
with  sharp  pain. 


LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERCI  207 


li 


Pray  don't  be  distressed,"  he  went  on.  "  I  beg  your 
pardon.  I  wasn't  thinking  what  I  was  saying,  I'm  an  ass. 
It's  nothing  I  tell  you  but  the  weather.  You're  all  a  lot  too 
good  to  me  and  indulge  me  too  much,  and  I  grow  soft,  and 
then  every  trifle  rubs  me  the  wrong  way.  I'm  a  regular  spoilt 
child — I  know  it  and  a  jolly  good  spanking  is  what  I  deserve. 
Burton,  here,  declares  that  the  autumnal,  like  the  vernal, 
equinox  breeds  hot  humours  and  distempers  in  the  blood.  I 
believe  we  ought  to  be  bled,  spring  and  fall,  like  our  foref;athers. 
Look  here,  mother,  don't  take  my  grumbling  to  heart.  I  tell 
you  I'm  just  a  little  hipped  from  the  weather.  Let's  send  for 
dear  old  Knott  and  get  him  to  drive  out  the  devil  with  his 
lancet  ?  No,  no,  seriously,  I  tell  you  what  we  will  do.  It'll 
be  good  for  us  both.  I  have  arrived  at  a  decision.  We'll 
have  Uncle  William  and — Helen " 

Richard  had  spoken  very  rapidly,  half  ashamed,  trying  to 
soothe  her.  He  paused  on  the  last  word.  He  was  conscious 
of  a  singular  pleasure  in  pronouncing  it.  The  perfectly 
iinished  figure  of  his  cousin,  outstanding  against  the  wide, 
misty  brightness  of  the  sunset,  the  scent  of  the  wood  and 
moorland,  the  haunting  suggestion  of  glad  secrets,  even  that 
upcurling  of  blue  cigarette  smoke,  rising  as  the  smoke  of  in- 
cense— with  a  difference — upon  the  clear  evening  air,  above 
all  that  silent  flattery  of  intimate  and  fearless  glances,  those 
gay  welcoming  gestures,  that  merry  calling,  as  of  birds  in  the 
tree-tops,  from  the  spirit  of  youth  within  him  to  the  spirit  of 
youth  so  visibly  and  radiantly  resident  in  her — all  this  rose  up 
before  Richard.  He  grew  reckless,  though  reckless  of  precisely 
what,  innocent  as  he  was,  in  fact  although  mature  in  learning,  he 
knew  not  as  yet.  Only  he  turned  on  his  mother  a  face  at 
once  eager  and  shy,  coaxing  her  as  when  in  his  long-ago 
baby-days  he  had  implored  some  petty  indulgence  or  the  gift 
of  some  coveted  toy  on  which  his  little  heart  was  set. 

"Yes,  let  us  have  them,"  he  said.  "You  know  Helen  is 
very  charming.  You  will  admire  her,  mother.  She  is  as 
clever  as  she  can  stick,  one  sees  that  at  a  glance.  And  she  is 
very  much  grande  dame  too — and,  oh,  well,  she  is  a  whole  lot 
of  charming  things  !  And  her  coming  would  be  a  wholesome 
breaking  up  of  our  ordinary  v/ays  of  going  on.  We  are 
usually  very  contented — at  least,  I  think  so — you,  and  dear 
Julius,  and   I,  but  perhaps  we   are  getting  Into  a  bit  of  a  rut. 


2c8  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

Hwlen's  society  might  prove  an  even  more  efficacious  method 
of  driving  out  my  blue-devils  than  Knott's  lancet  or  a  jolly 
good  spanking." 

He  laughed  quietly,  patting  Katherine's  hand,  but  looking 
aw^ay. 

"And  there  is  no  denying  it  would  be  a  vastly  more  grace- 
ful one — don't  you  think  so  ?  " 

Thus  vi^ere  smouldering  fires  of  personal  ambition  quenched 
in  Lady  Calmady,  as  so  often  before.  Richard's  tenderness 
brought  her  to  her  knees.  She  hugged,  vi^ith  an  almost  vo- 
luptuous movement  of  passion,  that  half-rejected  burden  of 
maternity,  gathering  it  close  against  her  heart  once  more. 
But,  along  with  the  rapture  of  self-surrender,  came  a  thousand 
familiar  fears  and  anxieties.  For  she  had  looked  into  Dickie's 
mind,  as  he  spoke  out  his  grumble,  and  had  there  perceived 
the  existence  of  much  which  she  had  dreaded  and  to  the  ex- 
istence of  which  she  had  striven  to  blind  herself. 

"  My  darling,"  she  said,  with  a  certain  hesitation,  "  I  will 
gladly  have  them  if  you  wish  it — only  you  remember  what 
happened  long  ago,  when  Helen  was  here  last  ? " 

"  Yes,  I  know,  I  was  afraid  you  would  think  of  that.  But 
you  can  put  that  aside.  Helen's  not  the  smallest  recollection 
of  it.     She  told  me  so  this  afternoon." 

"  Told  you  so  ?  "  Katherine  repeated. 

"Yes,"  he  said.  "It  was  awfully  sweet  of  her.  Evi- 
dently she'd  been  bullied  about  her  unseemly  behaviour  when 
she  was  small,  till  you,  and  I,  and  Brockhurst,  had  been  made 
into  a  perfect  bugbear.  She's  quite  amusingly  afraid  of  you 
still.  But  she's  no  notion  what  really  happened.  Of  course 
she  can't  have,  or  she  could  not  have  mentioned  the  subject 
to  me."  Richard  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  Obviously  it 
would  have  been  impossible." 

There  was  a  pause.  Lady  Calmady  rose.  The  young 
man  spoke  with  conviction,  yet  her  anxiety  was  not  altogether 
allayed. 

"  Impossible,"  he  repeated.  "  Pretty  mother  don't  disquiet 
yourself.  Trust  me.  To  tell  you  the  truth  I  have  felt  to- 
day— Is  it  very  foolish  ? — that  I  should  like  some  one  of  my 
own  age  for  a-  ^tle  while,  as — don't  you  know — a  play- 
fellow." 

Katherine  bent  down  and  kissed  him.     But  mother-love  is 


LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERCI  209 

not,  even  in  its  most  self-sacrificing  expression,  without  tor- 
ments of  jealousy. 

"  My  dear,  you  shall  have  your  playfellovtr,"  she  said, 
though  conscious  of  a  tightening  of  the  muscles  of  her  beauti- 
ful throat.     "  Good-night.     Sleep  v^^ell.'' 

She  vi^ent  out,  closing  the  door  behind  her.  The  perspec- 
tive of  the  dimly-lighted  corridor,  and  the  great  hall  beyond, 
struck  her  as  rather  sadly  lifeless  and  silent.  What  wonder, 
indeed,  that  Richard  should  ask  for  a  companion,  for  some- 
thing young  !  Love  made  her  selfish  and  cowardly  she  feared. 
She  should  have  thought  of  this  before.  She  turned  back,  again 
opening  the  Gun-Room  door. 

Richard  had  raised  himself.  He  stood  on  the  seat  of  the 
chair,  steadying  himself  by  one  hand  on  the  chair-back,  vv^hile 
with  the  other  he  pulled  the  rug  from  beneath  the  sleepy 
bull-dog. 

"  Wake  up,  you  lazy  old  beggar,"  he  was  saying.  "  Get 
down,  can't  you.  I  want  to  go  to  bed,  and  you  block  the 
way,  lying  there  in  gross  comfort,  snoring.  Make  yourself 
scarce,  old  man.  If  I'd  your  natural  advantages  in  the  way 
of  locomotion,  I  wouldn't  be  so  slow  of  using  them " 

He  looked  up,  and  slipped  back  into  a  sitting  position  hastily. 

"  Oh,  mother,  I  thought  you  had  gone  !  "  he  exclaimed, 
almost  sharply. 

And  to  Katherine,  overstrung  as  she  was,  the  words  came 
as  a  rebuke. 

"  My  dearest,  I  won't  keep  you,"  she  said.  "  I  only  came 
back  to  ask  you  about  Honoria  St.  Quentin." 

"What  about  her?" 

"  She  is  staying  at  Newlands — the  tv/o  girls  are  friends,  I 
believe.  She  seemed  to  me  a  fine  creature  when  last  I  saw 
her.  She  knows  the  world,  yet  struck  me  curiously  un- 
touched by  it.  She  is  well  read,  she  has  ideas — some  of  them 
a  little  extravagant,  but  time  will  modify  that.  Only  her 
head  is  awake  as  yet,  not  her  heart,  I  think.  Shall  I  ask  her 
to  come  too  ?  " 

"So  that  we  may  wake  up  her  heart?"  Richard  inquired 
coldly.  "No  thanks,  dear  mother,  that's  too  serious  an 
undertaking.  Have  her  another  time,  please.  I  saw  her  to- 
day, and,  no  doubt  my  taste  is  bad,  but  I  must  confess  she  did 
not   please  me  very  much.     Nor — which  is  more  to  the  point 


210  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

in  this  connection  perhaps — did  I  please  her.  Would  you 
ring  the  bell,  please,  as  you're  there  ?  I  want  Powell.  Thanks 
so  much.     Good-night.'* 

Some  ten  minutes  later  Julius  March,  after  kneeling  in 
prayer,  as  his  custom  was,  before  the  divinely  sorrowful  and 
compassionate  image  of  the  Virgin  Mother  and  the  Dead 
Christ,  looked  forth  through  the  many-paned  study  window 
into  the  clair-obscure  of  the  windless  autumn  night.  He  had 
been  sensible  of  an  unusual  element  in  the  domestic  atmos- 
phere this  evening,  and  had  been  vaguely  disquieted  concerning 
both  Katherine  and  Richard.  It  was  impossible  but  that,  as 
time  went  on,  life  should  become  more  complicated  at  Brock- 
hurst,  and  Julius  feared  his  own  inability  to  cope  helpfully 
with  such  complication.  He  entertained  a  mean  opinion  of 
himself.  It  appeared  to  him  he  was  but  an  unprofitable  serv- 
ant, unready,  tongue-tied,  lacking  in  resource.  A  depression 
possessed  him  which  he  could  not  shake  ofF.  What  had  he 
to  show,  after  all,  for  these  fifty-odd  years  of  life  granted  to 
him  ?  He  feared  his  religion  had  walked  in  silver  slippers, 
and  would  so  walk  to  the  end.  Could  it  then,  in  any  true 
and  vital  sense,  be  reckoned  religion  at  all  ?  Gross  sins  had 
never  exercised  any  attraction  over  him.  What  virtue  was 
there,  then,  in  being  innocent  of  gross  sin  ?  But  to  those 
other  sins — sins  of  defective  moral  courage  in  speech  and 
action,  sins  arising  from  over-fastidiousness — had  he  not 
yielded  freely  ?  Was  he  not  a  spiritual  valetudinarian  ?  He 
feared  so.  Off'ered,  in  the  Eternal  Mercy,  endless  precious 
opportunities  of  service,  he  had  been  too  weak,  too  timorous, 
too  slothful,  to  lay  hold  on  them.  And  so,  as  it  seemed  to 
him  very  justly,  to-night  confession,  prayer,  adoration,  left 
him  unconsoled. 

Then,  looking  out  of  the  many-paned  window,  while  the 
shame  of  his  barrenness  clothed  him  even  as  a  garment,  he 
beheld  Lady  Calmady  pacing  slowly  over  the  gray  quarries  of 
the  terrace  pavement.  A  dark,  fur-bordered  mantle  shrouded 
her  tall  figure  from  head  to  foot.  Only  her  face  showed,  and 
her  hands  folded  stiffly  high  upon  her  bosom,  strangely  pale 
against  the  blackness  of  her  cloak.  Ordinarily  Julius  would 
have  scrupled  to  intrude  upon  her  lonely  walk.  But  just  now 
the  cry  within  him  for  human  sympathy  was  urgent.  Her 
near  neighbourhood  in  itself  was  very  dear  to  him,  and  she 


LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERCI  211 

might  let  fall  some  gracious  word  testifying  that,  in  her 
opinion  at  least,  his  life  had  not  been  wholly  vain.  For  very 
surely  that  which  survives  when  all  other  passions  are  uprooted 
and  cast  forth — survives  even  in  the  case  of  the  true  ascetic 
and  saint — is  the  unquenchable  yearning  for  the  spoken  ap- 
proval of  those  whom  we  love  and  have  loved. 

And  so,  pushed  by  his  poverty  of  self-esteem,  Julius  March, 
throwing  a  plaid  on  over  his  cassock,  went  out  and  paced  the 
gray  quarries  beside  Katherine  Calmady. 

On  one  hand  rose  the  dark,  rectangular  masses  of  the  house, 
crowned  by  its  stacks  of  slender,  twisted  chimneys.  On  the 
other  lay  the  indefinite  and  dusky  expanse  of  the  park  and 
forest.  The  night  was  very  clear.  The  stars  were  innumer- 
able— fierce,  cold  points  of  pulsing  light. — Orion's  jeweled 
belt  and  sword  flung  wide  against  the  blue-black  vault. 
Cassiopeia  seated  majestic  in  her  golden  chair.  Northward, 
above  the  walled  gardens,  the  Bear  pointing  to  the  diamond 
flashing  of  the  Pole  star.  While  across  all  high  heaven,  dusty 
with  incalculable  myriads  of  worlds,  stretched  the  awful  and 
mysterious  highroad  of  the  Milky-Way.  The  air  was  keen 
and  tonic  though  so  still.  An  immense  and  fearless  quiet 
seemed  to  hold  all  things — a  quiet  not  of  sleep,  but  of  con- 
scious and  perfect  equilibrium,  a  harmony  so  sustained  and 
complete  that  to  human  ears  it  issued,  of  necessity,  in  silence. 

And  that  silence  Lady  Calmady  was  in  no  haste  to  break. 
Twice  she  and  her  companion  walked  the  length  of  the  ter- 
race, and  back,  before  she  spoke.  She  paused,  at  length,  just 
short  of  the  arcade  of  the  further  garden-hall. 

"  This  great  peace  of  the  night  puts  all  violence  of  feel- 
ing to  the  blush,"  she  said.  "  One  perceives  that  a  thousand 
years  are  very  really  as  one  day.  That  calms  one — with  a 
vengeance." 

Katherine  waited,  looking  out  over  the  vague  landscape, 
clasping  the  fur-bordered  edges  of  her  cloak  with  either  hand. 
It  appeared  to  Julius  that  both  her  voice  and  the  expression  of 
her  face  were  touched  with  irony. 

"  There  is  nothing  new  under  the  sun,"  she  went  on,  "  nor 
under  the  '  visiting  moon,'  nor  under  those  somewhat  heartless 
stars.  Does  it  occur  to  you,  Julius,  how  hopelessly  unoriginal 
we  are,  how  we  all  follow  in  the  same  beaten  track  ?  What 
thousands  of  men  and  women  have  stood,  as  you  and  I  stand 


212  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

now,  at  once  calmed — as  I  admit  that  I  am — and  rendered  not 
a  little  homeless  by  the  realisation  of  their  own  insignificance 
in  face  of  the  sleeping  earth  and  this  brooding  immensity  of 
space  !  A  qmt  hon^  a  quoi  hon  ?  Why  can't  one  learn  to  harden 
one's  poor  silly  heart,  and  just  move  round,  stone-like,  with 
the  great  movement  of  things  accepting  fate  and  ceasing  to 
struggle  or  to  care  ?  " 

"Just  because,  I  think,"  he  answered,  "  the  converse  of  that 
same  saying  is  equally  true.  If,  in  material  things,  a  thousand 
years  are  as  one  day,  in  the  things  of  the  spirit  one  day  is  as  a 
thousand  years.  Remember  the  Christ  crying  upon  the  cross  — 
'  My  God,  My  God,  why  hast  Thou  forsaken  Me  ? '  and  suffer- 
ing during  that  brief  utterance  the  sum  of  all  the  agony  of 
sensible  insignificance  and  sensible  homelessness  human  nature 
ever  has  borne  or  will  bear." 

"  Ah,  the  Christ !  the  Christ  !  "  Lady  Calmady  exclaimed^ 
half  wistfully  as  it  seemed  to  Julius  March,  and  half  im- 
patiently.    She  turned  and  paced  the  pale  pavement  again. 

"  You  are  too  courteous,  my  dear  friend,  and  cite  an  example 
august  out  of  all  proportion  to  my  little  lament."  She  looked 
round  at  him  as  she  spoke,  smiling ;  and  in  the  uncertain  light 
her  smile  showed  tremulous,  suggestive  of  a  nearness  to  tears. 
"  Instinctively  you  scale  Olympus, — Calvary  ? — yes,  but  I  am 
afraid  both  those  heights  take  on  an  equally  and  tragically 
mythological  character  to  me — and  would  bring  me  consolation 
from  the  dwelling-places  of  the  gods.  And  my  feet,  all  the 
while,  are  very  much  upon  the  floor,  alas  !  That  is  happen- 
ing to  me  which  never  yet  happened  to  the  gods,  according  to 
the  orthodox  authorities.  Just  this — a  commonplace — dear 
Julius,  I  am  growing  old." 

Katherine  drew  her  cloak  m.ore  severely  about  her  and 
moved  on  hastily,  her  head  a  little  bent. 

"No,  no,  don't  protest,"  she  added,  as  he  attempted  to 
speak.  "We  can  be  honest  and  dispense  with  conventional 
phrases,  here,  alone,  under  the  stars.  I  am  growing  old, 
Julius — and  being,  I  suppose,  but  a  vain,  doting  woman,  I  have 
only  discovered  what  that  really  means  to-day  !  But  there  is 
this  excuse  for  me.  My  youth  was  so  blessed,  so — so  glorious, 
that  it  was  natural  I  should  strive  to  delude  myself  regarding 
its  passing  away.  I  perceive  that  for  years  I  have  continued 
to  call  that  a  bride-bed  which  was,  in  truth,  a  bier.     I  hive 


LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERCI  213 

struggled  to  keep  my  youth  in  fancy,  as  I  have  kept  the  red 
drawing-room  in  fact,  unaltered.  Is  not  all  this  pitifully  vain 
and  self-indulgent  ?  I  have  solaced  myself  with  the  phantom 
of  youth.     And  I  am  old — old.'* 

"  But  you  ai-e  yourself,  Katherine,  yourself.  Nothing  that 
has  been,  has  ceased  to  be,"  Julius  broke  in,  unable  in  the  ful- 
ness  of  his  reverent  honour  of  his  dear  lady  to  comprehend  the 
meaning  of  her  present  bitterness.  "Surely  the  mere  adding 
of  year  to  year  can  make  no  so  vital  difference  ?  " 

"  Ah  !  you  dear  stupid  creature,"  she  cried, — "  stupid, 
because,  manlike,  you  are  so  hopelessly  sensible — it  makes 
just  all  the  difference  in  the  world.  I  shall  grow  less  alert, 
less  pliable  of  mind,  less  quick  of  sympathy,  less  capable  of 
adjusting  myself  to  altered  conditions,  and  to  entertaining 
new  views.  And,  all  the  while,  the  demand  upon  me  will  not 
lessen." 

Katherine  stopped  suddenly  in  her  swift  walk.  The  two 
stood  facing  one  another. 

"  The  demand  will  increase,"  she  declared.  "  Richard  is 
not  happy." 

And  thereupon — since,  even  in  the  most  devout  and  holy, 
the  old  Adam  dies  extremely  hard — Julius  March  fell  a  prey 
to  very  lively  irritation.  While  she  talked  of  herself,  bestow- 
ing unreserved  confidence  upon  him,  he  could  listen  gladly, 
forever.  But  if  that  most  welcome  subject  of  conversation 
should  be  dropped,  let  her  give  him  that  which  he  craved  to- 
night, so  specially — a  word  for  himself.  Let  her  deal,  for  a 
little  space,  with  his  own  private  needs,  his  own  private  joys 
and  sorrows. 

"Ah  !  Richard  is  not  happy  !  "  he  exclaimed,  his  irritation 
finding  voice.  "We  reach  the  root  of  the  matter.  Richard 
is  not  happy.     Alas,  then,  for  Richard's  mother  !  " 

"Are  you  so  much  surprised?"  Katherine  asked  hotly. 
"Do  you  venture  to  blame  him  ?  If  so,  I  am  afraid  religion 
has  made  you  rather  cruel,  Julius.  But  that  is  not  a  new 
thing  under  the  sun  either.  Those  who  possess  high  spiritual 
consolations — unknown  to  the  rank  and  file  of  us — have  gen- 
erally displayed  an  inclination  to  take  the  misfortunes  of  others 
with  admirable  resignation.  Dearest  Marie  de  Mirancourt 
was  an  exception  to  that  rule.  You  might  do  worse  perhaps 
than  learn  to  follow  her  example." 


214  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

As  she  finished  speaking  Lady  Calmady  turned  from  him 
rather  loftily,  and  prepared  to  move  away.  But  even  in  sa 
doing  she  received  an  impression  which  tended  to  modify  her 
resentful  humour. 

P'or  an  instant  Julius  March  stood,  a  tall,  thin,  black  figure, 
rigid  and  shadowless  upon  the  pallor  of  the  gray  pavement,  his 
arms  extended  wide,  as  once  crucified,  while  he  looked,  not  at 
her,  not  out  into  the  repose  of  the  night-swathed  landscape, 
but  up  at  the  silent  dance  of  the  eternal  stars  in  the  limitless 
fields  of  space.  As  Katherine,  earlier  in  the  evening,  had 
taken  up  the  momentarily  rejected  burden  of  her  motherhood^ 
so  Julius  now,  with  a  movement  of  supreme  self-surrender^ 
took  up  the  momentarily  rejected  burden  of  the  isolation  of 
the  religious  life.  Self-wounded  by  self-love,  he  had  sought 
comfort  in  the  creature  rather  than  the  creator.  And  the 
creature  turned  and  rebuked  him.  It  w^as  just.  Now  Julius 
gave  himself  back,  bowed  himself  again  under  the  dominion 
of  his  fixed  idea ;  and,  so  doing,  gained,  unconsciously,  precisely 
that  which  he  had  gone  forth  to  seek.  For  Katherine,  struck 
alike  by  the  strange  vigour,  and  strange  resignation,  of  his 
attitude,  suffered  quick  fear,  not  only  for,  but  of  him.  His 
aloofness  alarmed  her. 

"  Julius  !  dear  Julius  !  "  she  cried.  *^  Come,  let  us  walk.  It 
grows  cold.  I  enjoy  that,  but  it  is  not  very  safe  for  you. 
And,  pardon  me,  dear  friend,  I  spoke  harshly  just  now.  I 
told  you  I  was  getting  old.  Put  my  words  down  to  the 
peevishness  of  old  age  then." 

Katherine  smiled  at  him  with  a  sw^eet,  half-playful  humility. 
Her  face  was  very  wan.  And  speech  not  coming  immediately 
to  him,  she  spoke  again. 

"  You  have  always  been  very  patient  with  me.  You  must 
go  on  being  so." 

"  I  ask  nothing  better,"  Julius  said. 

Lady  Calmady  stopped,  drew  herself  up,  shook  back  her 
head. 

"  Ah  !  what  sorry  creatures  we  all  are,"  she  cried,  rather 
bitterly.  "  Discontented,  unstable,  forever  kicking  against 
the  pricks,  and  fighting  against  the  inevitable.  Always  crying 
to  one  another,  'See  how  hard  this  is,  know  how  it  hurts,  feel 
the  weight!'  My  poor  darling  cries  to  me — that  is  natural 
enough  " — Katherine  paused — "  and  as  it  should  be.     But  I 


LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERCI  215 

must  needs  run  out  and  cry  to  you.  In  this  we  are  like  links 
of  an  endless  chain.  What  is  the  next  link,  Julius  ?  To 
whom  will  you  cry  in  your  turn  ?  " 

"  The  chain  is  not  endless,"  he  replied.  "  The  last  link 
of  it  is  riveted  to  the  steps  of  the  throne  of  God.  I  will 
make  my  cry  there — my  threefold  cry — for  you,  for  Richard, 
and  for  myself,  Katherine." 

Lady  Calmady  had  reached  the  arched  side-door  leading 
from  the  terrace  into  the  house.  She  paused,  with  her  hand 
on  the  latch. 

''  Your  God  and  I  quarreled  nearly  four-and-twenty  years 
ago — not  when  Richard,  my  joy,  died,  but  when  Richard,  my 
sorrow,  was  born,"  she  said.  "  I  own  I  see  no  way,  short  of 
miracle,  of  that  quarrel  being  made  up." 

"  Then  a  miracle  will  be  worked,"  he  answered. 

"  Ah  !  You  forget  I  grow  old,"  Katherine  retorted,  smi- 
ling ;  "  so  that  for  miracles  the  time  is  at  once  too  long  and 
too  short." 


CHAPTER  V 

TELLING    HOW    QUEEN    MARY's   CRYSTAL    BALL   CAME    TO   FAL\ 
ON    THE    GALLERY    FLOOR 

'  I  ^HIS  world  is  unquestionably  a  vastly  stimulating  and  en- 
tertaining place  if  you  take  it  aright — namely,  if  you 
recognise  that  it  is  the  creation  of  a  profound  humorist,  is  de- 
signed for  wholly  practical  and  personal  uses,  and  proceed  to 
adapt  your  conduct  to  that  knowledge  in  all  light-heartedness 
and  good  faith.  Thus,  though  in  less  trenchant  phrase  since 
she  was  still  happily  very  young,  meditated  Madame  de  Val- 
lorbes,  while  standing  in  the  pensive  October  sunshine  upon 
the  wide  flight  of  steps  which  leads  down  from  the  main 
entrance  of  Brockhurst  House.  Tall,  stone  pinnacles  alter- 
nating with  seated  griffins — long  of  tail,  fierce  of  beak  and 
sharp  of  claw — fill  in  each  of  the  many  angles  of  the  descend- 
ing stone  balustrade  on  either  hand.  Behind  her,  the  florid, 
though  rectangular,  decoration  of  the  house  front  ranged  up, 
storey  above  storey,  in  arcade  and  pilaster,  heavily  mullioned 


2i6  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

window,  carven  plaque  and  string  course,  to  pairs  of  matching 
pinnacles  and  griffins — these  last  rampant,  supporting  the 
Calmady  shield  and  coat-of-arms — the  quaint  forms  of  which 
break  the  long  line  of  the  pierced,  stone  parapet  in  the  centre 
of  the  facade,  and  rise  above  the  rusty  red  of  the  low-pitched 
roofs,  until  the  spires  of  the  one  and  crested  heads  of  the  other 
are  outlined  against  the  sky.  About  her  feet  the  pea-fowl 
stepped  in  mincing  and  self-conscious  elegance — the  cocks 
with  rustlings  of  heavy  trailing  quills,  the  hens  and  half-grown 
chicks  with  squeakings  and  whiiflings — subdued,  conversa- 
tional— accompanied  by  the  dry  tap  of  many  bills  picking  up 
the  glossy  grains  of  Indian-corn  which  she  let  dribble  slowly 
down  upon  the  shallow  steps  from  between  her  pretty  fingers. 
She  had  huddled  a  soft  sable  tippet  about  her  throat  and  shoul- 
ders. The  skirt  of  her  indigo-coloured,  poplin  dress,  turning 
upon  the  step  immediately  above  that  on  which  she  stood, 
showed  some  inches  of  rose-scarlet,  silken  frill  lining  the  hem 
of  it. 

Helen  de  Vallorbes  had  a  lively  consciousness  of  her  sur- 
roundings. She  enjoyed  every  detail  of  them.  Enjoyed  the 
gentle,  southwesterly  wind  which  touched  her  face  and 
stirred  her  bright  hair,  enjoyed  the  plaintive,  autumn  song  of 
a  robin  perched  on  a  rose-grown  wall,  enjoyed  the  impotent 
ferocity  of  the  guardian  griffins,  enjoyed  the  small  sounds 
made  by  the  feeding  pea-fowl,  the  modest  quaker  grays  and 
the  imperial  splendours  of  their  plumage.  She  enjoyed  the 
turn  of  her  own  wrist,  its  gold  chain-bracelet  and  the  hand- 
some lace  falling  away  from  and  displaying  it,  as  she  held  out 
the  handfuls  of  corn.  She  enjoyed  even  tliat  space  of  rose- 
scarlet  declaring  itself  between  the  dull  blue  of  her  dress  and 
the  gray,  weathered  surface  of  the  stone. 

But  all  these  formed  only  the  accompaniment,  the  ground- 
tone,  to  more  reasoned,  more  vital  enjoyments.  Before  her, 
beyond  the  carriage  sweep,  lay  the  square  lawn  enclosed  by  red 
walls  and  by  octagonal,  pepper-pot  summer-houses,  whereon — 
unwillingly,  yet  in  obedience  to  the  wild  justice  of  revenge — 
Roger  Ormiston  had  shot  the  Clown,  half-brother  to  Touch- 
stone, race-horse  of  mournful  memory.  As  a  child  Helen  had 
heard  that  story.  Now  her  somewhat  light,  blue-gray  eyes, 
their  beautiful  lids  raised  wide  for  once,  looked  out  curiously 
upon  the  space  of  dew-powdered  turf  5  while  the  corners  of 


LA  BELLE  DAiME  SANS  MERCI  217 

her  mouth — a  mouth  a  trifle  thin  h'pped,  yet  soft  and  danger- 
ously sweet  for  kissing — turned  upward  in  a  reflective  smile. 
She,  too,  knew  what  it  was  to  be  angry,  to  the  point  of  re- 
venge ;  had  indeed  come  to  Brockhurst  not  without  purpose 
of  that  last  tucked  away  in  some  naughty  convolution  of  her 
active  brain.  But  Brockhurst  and  its  inhabitants  had  proved 
altogether  more  interesting  than  she  had  anticipated.  This 
was  the  fourth  day  of  her  visit,  and  each  day  had  proved  more 
to  her  taste  than  the  preceding  one.  So  she  concluded  this 
matter  of  revenge  might  very  well  stand  over  for  the  moment, 
possibly  stand  over  altogether.  The  present  was  too  excellent,, 
of  its  kind,  to  risk  spoiling.  Helen  de  Vallorbes  valued  the 
purple  and  fine  linen  of  a  high  civilisation ;  nor  did  she  dis~ 
dain,  within  graceful  limits,  to  fare  sumptuously  every  day. 
She  valued  all  that  is  beautiful  and  costly  in  art,  of  high  merit 
and  distinction  in  literature.  Her  taste  was  sure  and  just,  if 
a  little  more  disposed  towards  that  which  is  sensuous  than  to- 
wards that  which  is  spiritual.  And  in  all  its  many  forms  she 
appreciated  luxury,  even  entertaining  a  kindness  for  that 
necessary  handmaid  of  luxury — waste.  Appreciated  these  the 
more  ardently,  that,  with  birth-pangs  at  the  beginning  of  each 
human  life,  death-pangs  and  the  corruption  of  the  inevitable 
grave  at  the  close  of  each,  all  this  lapping,  meanwhile,  of  the 
doomed  flesh  in  exaggerations  of  ease  and  splendour  seemed  to 
her  among  the  very  finest  ironies  of  the  great  comedy  of  ex- 
istence. It  heightened,  it  accentuated  the  drama.  And 
among  the  many  good  things  of  life,  drama,  come  how  and 
where  and  when  it  might,  seemed  to  her  supremely  the  best. 
She  desired  it  as  a  lover  his  mistress.  To  detect  it,  to  observe 
it,  gave  her  the  keenest  pleasure.  To  take  a  leading  part  in 
and  shape  it  to  the  turn  of  her  own  heart,  her  own  purpose, 
her  own  wit  was,  so  far,  her  ruling  passion. 

And  of  potential  drama,  of  the  raw  material  of  it,  as  the 
days  passed,  she  found  increasingly  generous  store  at  Brock- 
hurst. It  invaded  and  held  her  imagination,  as  the  initial  con- 
ception of  his  poem  will  that  of  the  poet,  or  of  his  picture 
that  of  the  painter.  She  brooded  over  it,  increasingly  con- 
vinced that  it  might  be  a  masterpiece.  For  the  drama — as 
she  apprehended  it — contained  not  only  elements  of  virility 
and  strength,  but  an  element,  and  that  a  persistent  one,  of  the 
grotesque.     This  put  the  gilded  dome  to  her  silent,  and  per- 


2i8  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

haps  slightly  unscrupulous,  satisfaction.  How  could  it  be 
otherwise,  since  the  presence  of  the  grotesque  is,  after  all,  the 
main  justification  of  the  theory  on  which  her  philosophy  of 
life  was  based — namely,  the  belief  that  above  all  eloquence  of 
human  speech,  behind  all  enthusiasm  of  human  action  or  emo- 
tion, the  ear  which  hears  aright  can  always  detect  the  echo  of 
eternal  laughter  ?  And  this  grim  echo  did  not  affect  the 
charming  young  lady  to  sadness  as  yet.  Still  less  did  it  make 
her  mad,  as  the  mere  suspicion  of  it  has  made  so  many,  and 
those  by  no  means  unworthy  or  illiterate  persons.  For  the 
laugh,  so  far,  had  appeared  to  be  on  her  side,  never  at  her  ex- 
pense— which  makes  a  difference.  And  the  chambers  of  her 
house  of  life  were  too  crowded  by  health  and  agreeable  sensa- 
tions, mental  activities  and  sparkling  audacities,  to  have  any 
one  of  them  vacant  for  reception,  more  than  momentary,  of 
that  thrice-blessed  guest,  pity. 

And  so  it  followed  that,  as  she  fed  the  mincing  pea-fowl, 
Madame  de  Vallorbes'  smile  changed  in  character  from  reflec- 
tion to  impatience.  A  certain  heat  running  through  her,  she 
set  her  pretty  teeth  and  fell  to  pelting  the  pea-hens  and  chicks 
mischievously,  breaking  up  all  their  aristocratic  reserve  and 
making  them  jump  and  squeak  to  some  purpose.  For  this 
precious,  this  very  masterpiece  of  a  drama  was  not  only  here 
potentially,  but  actually.  It  was  alive.  She  had  felt  it  move 
under  her  hand — or  under  her  heart,  which  was  it  ? — yesterday 
evening.  Again  this  morning,  just  now,  she  had  noted  signs 
of  its  vitality,  wholly  convincing  to  one  skilled  in  such  mat- 
ters.    Impatience,  then,  became  very  excusable. 

"  For  my  time  is  short  and  the  action  disengages  itself  so 
<leplorably  slowly  !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  Pah  !  you  greedy,  con- 
ceited birds,  which  do  you  hold  dearest  after  all,  the  filling  of 
your  little  stomachs,  or  the  supporting  of  your  little  dignities  ? 
Be  advised  by  a  higher  intelligence.  Revenge  yourselves  on 
the  grains  that  hit  and  sting  you  by  gobbling  them  up.  It  is 
a  venerable  custom  that  of  feasting  upon  one's  enemies.  And 
has  been  practised,  in  various  forms,  both  by  nations  and  in- 
dividuals. There,  I  give  you  another  chance  of  displaying 
wisdom — there — there  ! — La  !  la!  what  an  absurd  commotion  ! 
You  little  idiots,  don't  flutter.  Agitation  is  a  waste  of  energy, 
and  advances  nothing.     I  declare  peace.     I  want  to  consider." 

And  so,  letting  the  remaining  handfuls  of  corn  dribble  dowj* 


LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERCI  219 

very  slowly,  while  the  sunshine  grew  warmer  and  the  shadows- 
of  the  guardian  griffins  more  distinct  upon  the  lichen- 
encrusted  stones,  Helen  de  Vallorbes  sank  back  into  medita- 
tion — Yes,  unquestionably  the  drama  was  alive.  But  it 
seemed  so  difficult  to  bring  it  to  the  birth.  And  she  wanted, 
very  badly,  to  hear  its  first  half-articulate  cries  and  watch  its 
first  staggering  footsteps.  All  that  is  so  entertaining,  you 
yourself  safely  grown-up,  standing  very  firm  on  your  feet,  \. 
looking  down  !  And  it  would  be  a  lusty  child,  this  drama, 
very  soon  reaching  man's  estate  and  man's  inspiring  violence 
of  action,  striking  out  like  some  blind,  giant  Samson,  blunder- 
ing headlong  in  its  unseeing,  uncalculating  strength. — Helen 
laid  her  hands  upon  her  bosom,  and  threw  back  her  head, 
while  her  throat  bubbled  with  suppressed  laughter.  Ah  !  it 
promised  to  be  a  drama  of  ten  thousand,  if  she  knew  her 
power,  and  knew  her  world — and  she  possessed  considerable 
confidence  in  her  knowledge  of  both.  Only,  how  on  earth  to 
set  the  crystal  free  of  the  matrix,  how  to  engage  battle,  how 
to  get  this  thing  fairly  and  squarely  born  ?  For,  as  she  ac- 
knowledged, in  the  flotation  of  all  such  merry  schemes  as  her 
present  one,  chance  encounters,  interludes,  neatly  planned 
evasions  and  resultant  pursuits,  play  so  large  and  important  a 
part.  But  at  Brockhurst  this  whole  chapter  of  accidents  was 
barred,  and  received  rules  of  strategy  almost  annihilated,  by 
the  fact  of  Richard  Calmady's  infirmity  and  the  hard-and-fast 
order  of  domestic  procedure,  the  elaborate  system  of  etiquette, 
which  that  infirmity  had  gradually  produced.  At  Brockhurst 
there  were  no  haphazard  exits  and  entrances.  These  were 
either  hopelessly  official  and  public,  or  guarded  to  an  equally 
hopeless  point  of  secrecy.  A  contingent  of  tall,  civil  men- 
servants  was  always  on  duty.  Richard  was  invariably  in  his 
place  at  table  when  the  rest  of  the  company  came  down. 
The  ladies  took  their  after-dinner  cofFee  in  the  drawing-room, 
and  joined  the  gentlemen  in  the  Chapel-Room,  library,  or  gal- 
lery, as  the  case  might  be.  If  they  rode,  Richard  was  at  the 
door  ready  mounted,  along  with  the  grooms  and  ied-horses. 
If  they  drove,  he  was  already  seated  in  the  carriage. 

"And  how,  how  in  the  name  of  common  sense,"  Madame 
de  Vallorbes  exclaimed,  stamping  her  foot,  and  thereby  throw- 
ing the  now  thoroughly  nervous  pea-fowl  into  renewed  agita- 
tion, ''  arc  you  to  establish  any  relation  worth  meationing  with 


220  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

a  man  who  is  perpetually  being  carried  in  procession  like  a 
Hindu  idol  ?  My  good  birds,  one's  never  alone  with  him — 
whether  by  design  and  arrangement,  I  know  not.  But,  so 
far,  never,  never,  picture  that !  And  yet,  don't  tell  me, 
matchless  mixture  of  pride  and  innocence  though  he  is,  he 
wouldn't  like  it  !  " 

However,  she  checked  her  irritation  by  contemplation  of 
yesterday.  Ah  !  that  had  been  very  prettily  done  assuredly. 
For  riding  in  the  forenoon  along  the  road  skirting  the  palings 
of  the  inner  park,  while  they  walked  their  horses  over  the 
soft,  brown  bed  of  fallen  fir-needles, — she,  her  father,  and 
Dick, — the  conversation  dealt  with  certain  first  editions  and 
their  bindings,  certain  treas-ures,  unique  in  historic  worth, 
locked  in  the  glass  tables  and  fine  Florentine  and  pietra  dura 
cabinets  of  the  Long  Gallery.  Mr.  Ormiston  was  a  connois- 
seur and  talked  well.  And  Helen  had  sufficient  acquaintance 
with  such  matters  both  to  appreciate,  and  to  add  telling  words 
to  the  talk. 

"Ah!  but  I  cannot  go  without  seeing  those  delectable 
things,  Richard,"  she  said.  "Would  it  be  giving  you  alto- 
gether too  much  trouble  to  have  them  out  for  me  ?  " 

"  Why,  of  course  not.  You  shall  see  them  whenever  you 
like,"  he  answered.  "  Julius  knows  all  about  them.  He'll 
be  only  too  delighted  to  act  showman." 

Just  here  the  road  narrowed  a  little,  and  Mr.  Ormiston  let 
his  horse  drop  a  few  lengths  behind,  so  that  she,  Helen,  and 
her  cousin  rode  forward  side  by  side.  The  tones  of  the  low 
sky,  of  the  ranks  of  firs  and  stretches  of  heather  formed  a  rich, 
though  sombre,  harmony  of  colour.  Scents,  pungent  and 
singularly  exhilarating,  were  given  off  by  the  damp  mosses  and 
the  peaty  moorland  soil.  The  freedom  of  the  forest,  the  feel- 
ing of  the  noble  horse  under  her,  stirred  Helen  as  with  the  ex- 
citement of  a  mighty  hunting,  a  positively  royal  sport.  While 
the  close  presence  of  the  young  man  riding  beside  her 
sharpened  the  edge  of  that  excitement  to  a  perfect  keenness  of 
pleasure. 

"  Ah,  how  glorious  it  all  is  !  "  she  cried.  "  How  glad  I  am 
that  you  asked  me  to  come  here." 

And  she  turned  to  Richard,  looking  at  him  as,  since  the 
first  day  of  their  jueeting,  she  had  not,  somehow,  quite  ven- 
tured to  look. 


LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERCI  22B 

"  But,  oh  !  dear  me  !  please/'  she  went  on,  "  I  know  Mr. 
March  is  an  angel,  a  saint — but — but — mea  culpa ^  mea  maxima 
culpa^  I  don't  want  him  to  show  me  those  special  treasures  of 
yours.  He'll  take  the  life  out  of  them.  I  know  it.  And 
make  them  seem  like  things  read  of  merely  in  a  learned  book. 
Be  very  charming  to  me,  Richard.  Waste  half  an  hour  upon 
me.     Show  me  those  moving  relics  yourself." 

As  she  spoke,  momentary  suspicion  rose  in  Dickie's  eyes. 
But  she  gazed  back  unflinchingly,  with  the  uttermost  frank- 
ness, so  that  suspicion  died,  giving  place  to  the  shy,  yet 
triumphant,  gladness  of  youth  which  seeks  and  finds  youth. 

"  Do,  Richard,  pray  do,"  she  repeated. 

The  young  man  had  averted  his  face  rather  sharply,  and 
both  horses,  somehow,  broke  into  a  hand  gallop. 

"  All  right,"  he  answered.  "  I'll  arrange  it.  This  evenings 
about  six,  after  tea  ?     Will  that  suit  you  ?     I'll  send  you  word."" 

Then  the  road  had  widened,  permitting  Mr.  Ormiston  to 
draw  up  to  them  again.  The  remainder  of  the  ride  had  been 
a  little  silent.       ^_^ — — 

Yes,  all  that  had  been  prettily  done.  Nor  had  the  piece 
that  followed  proved  unworthy  of  the  prelude.  She  ran  over 
the  scene  in  her  mind  now,  as  she  stood  among  the  pocketing 
pea-fowl,  and  it  caused  her  both  mirth  and  delightful  little 
heats,  in  which  the  heart  has  a  word  to  say. — Madame  de 
Vallorbes  was  ravished  to  feel  her  heart,  just  now  and  again. — 
For,  contradictory  as  it  may  seem,  no  game  is  perfect  that  has 
not  moments  of  seriousness. — She  recalled  the  aspect  of  the 
Long  Gallery,  as  one  of  those  civil,  ever-present  men-servants 
had  opened  the  door  for  her,  and  she  waited  a  moment  on  the 
threshold.  The  true  artist  is  never  in  a  hurry.  The  breadth 
of  the  great  room  immediately  before  her  showed  very  bright 
with  candle-light  and  lamplight.  But  that  died  away,  through 
gradations  of  augmenting  obscurity,  until  the  extreme  end, 
towards  the  western  bay,  melted  out  into  complete  darkness* 
This  produced  an  effect  of  almost  limitless  length  which 
moved  her  to  a  childish,  and  at  first  pleasing,  fancy  of  vague 
danger — an  effect  heightened  by  the  ranges  of  curious  and 
costly  objects  standing  against,  or  decorating,  the  walls  in  a. 
perspective  of  deepening  gloom.  Turquoise-coloured,  satin 
curtains,  faded  to  intimate  accord  with  the  silvered  surface  of 
the  paneling,  were  drawn  across  the  wide  windows.     They 


222  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

reached  to  the  lower  edge  of  the  stonework  merely,  leaving 
blottings  of  impenetrable  shadow  below.  While,  as  culmina- 
tion of  interest,  as  living  centre  of  this  rich  and  varied  setting, 
was  the  figure  of  Richard  Calmady — seen,  as  his  custom  was, 
only  to  the  waist — seated  in  a  high-backed  chair  drawn  close 
against  an  antique,  oak  table,  upon  which  a  small  pietra  dura 
cabinet  had  been  placed.  The  doors  of  the  cabinet  stood 
open,  displaying  slender  columns  of  jasper  and  porphyry,  and 
little  drawers  encrusted  with  raised  work  in  marbles  and  pre- 
cious stones.  The  young  man  sat  stiffly  upright,  as  one  who 
listens,  expectant.  His  expression  was  almost  painfully  se- 
rious. In  one  hand  he  held  a  string  of  pearls,  attached  to 
which,  and  enclosed  by  intersecting  hoops  of  gold,  was  a 
crystal  ball  that  shone  with  the  mild  effulgence  of  a  mimic 
moon.  And  the  great  room  was  so  very  quiet,  that  Helen,  in 
her  pause  upon  the  threshold,  had  remarked  the  sound  of  rain- 
drops tapping  upon  the  many  window-panes  as  with  im- 
patiently nervous  fingers. 

And  this  bred  in  her  a  corresponding  nervousness — sensa- 
tion to  her,  heretofore,  almost  unknown.  The  darkness  yon- 
der began  to  provoke  a  disagreeable  impression,  queerly  chal- 
lenging both  her  eyesight  and  her  courage.  Old  convent 
teachings,  regarding  the  Prince  of  Darkness  and  his  emissaries, 
returned  upon  her.  What  if  diabolic  shapes  lurked  there, 
ready  to  oecome  stealthily  emergent  ?  She  had  scoffed  at  such 
archaic  fancies  in  cne  convent,  yet,  in  lonely  hours,  had  suf- 
fered panic  fear  of  them,  as  will  the  hardiest  sceptic.  A  cer- 
tain little  scar,  moreover,  carefully  hidden  under  the  soft  hair 
arranged  low  on  her  right  temple,  smarted  and  pricked.  In 
short,  her  habitual  self-confidence  suffered  partial  eclipse.  She 
was  visited  by  the  disintegrating  suspicion,  for  once,  that  the 
eternal  laughter  might,  possibly,  be  at  her  expense,  rather  than 
.on  her  side. 

But  she  conquered  such  suspicion  as  contemptible,  and  cast 
out  the  passing  weakness.  The  bare  memory  of  it  angered 
her  now,  causing  her  to  fire  a  volley  of  yellow  corn  at  a  lordly 
peacock,  which  sent  him  scuttling  down  the  steps  on  to  the 
gravel  in  most  plebeian  haste.  Yes,  she  had  speedily  cast  out 
her  weakness,  thank  heaven  !  What  was  all  the  pother  about 
after  all  ?  This  was  not  the  first  time  she  had  played  merry 
games  with  the  affairs  and  affections  of  men.     Madame  de 


LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERCI  22j 

Vallorbes  smiled  to  herself,  recalling  certain  episodes,  and 
shook  her  charming  shoulders  gleefully,  as  she  looked  out  into- 
the  sunny  morning.  And  then,  was  there  not  ample  excuse  ? 
This  man  moved  her  more  than  most — more  than  any.  She 
swore  he  did.  Her  attitude  towards  him  was  something  new, 
something  quite  different,  thereby  justifying  her  campaign. 
And  therefore,  all  the  bolder  for  her  brief  self-distrust  and  hes- 
itation, she  had  swept  across  the  great  room,  light  of  foot,  and 
almost  impertinently  graceful  of  carriage. 

"Here  you  are  at  last!"  Dickie  had  exclaimed,  with  a 
sigh  as  of  relief.  "  I  shan't  want  anything  more,  Powell. 
You  can  come  back  when  the  dressing-bell  rings."  *  Then,  as- 
the  valet  closed  the  door  behind  him,  he  continued  rapidly : — 
"  Not  that  I  propose  to  victimise  you  till  then,  Helen.  You^ 
mustn't  stay  a  bit  longer  than  you  like.  I  confess  I'm  awfully 
fond  of  this  room.  I'm  almost  ashamed  to  think  how  much 
time  I  waste  in  it.  Doing  what?  Oh,  well,  just  dreaming! 
You  see  it  contains  samples  of  the  doings  of  all  my  father's 
people,  and  I  return  to  primitive  faiths  here  and  to  perform 
acts  of  ancestor  worship." 

"  Ah  !  I  like  that !  "  Helen  said.  And  she  did.  Picture 
this  man,  long  of  arm,  unnaturally  low  of  stature,  and  astonish- 
ingly— yes,  quite  astonishingly  good-looking,  moving  about : 
among  these  books  and  pictures,  these  trophies  of  war  and  of 
sport,  these  oriental  jars,  tall  almost  as  himself,  and  all  the 
other  strange  furnishings  from  out  distant  years  and  distant 
lands  !  Picture  him  emerging  from  that  well  of  soft  darkness 
yonder,  for  instance  !  Helen's  eyes  danced  under  their  arched 
and  drooping  lids,  and  she  registered  the  fact  that,  though  still 
frightened,  her  fright  had  changed  in  character.  It  was  grate- 
ful to  her  palate.  She  relished  it  as  the  bouquet  of  a  wine  of 
finest  quality.     Meanwhile  her  companion  talked  on. 

"The  ancestor  worship  ?  Oh  yes!  I  dare  say  you  might 
like  it  for  a  change.  Getting  it  as  I  do,  as  habitual  diet,  it  is 
not  remarkably  stimulating.  The  natural  man  prefers  to  find 
occasion  for  worshipping  himself  rather  than  his  ancestors, 
after  all,  you  know.  But  a  little  turn  of  it  will  serve  to  fill  in 
a  gap  and  lessen  the  monotony  of  your  visit.  I  am  afraid  you 
must  be  a  good  deal  bored,  Helen.  It  must  seem  rather  ter- 
ribly humdrum  here  after  Paris  and  Naples,  and — well — most 
places,  at  that  rate,  as  you  know  them." 


224  SIR  RICHARD  CALA/IADY 

Richard  shifted  his  position.  And  the  crystal  moon  encom- 
passed by  golden  bands,  crossing  and  intersecting  one  another 
like  those  of  a  sidereal  sphere,  gleamed  as  with  an  inward  and 
unearthly  light,  swinging  slowly  upon  the  movement  of  his 
hand. 

"  You  must  feel  here  as  though  the  clock  had  been  put  back 
two  or  three  centuries.  I  know  we  move  slowly,  and  conduct 
ourselves  with  tedious  deliberation.  And  so,  you  understand, 
you  mustn't  let  me  keep  you.  Just  look  at  what  you  like 
of  these  odds  and  ends,  and  then  depart  without  scruple.  It's 
rather  a  fraud,  in  any  case,  my  showing  them  to  you.  Julius 
March,  as  I  told  you,  is  much  better  qualified  to." 

"Julius  March,  Julius  March,"  Madame  de  Vallorbes  broke 
in.  "  Do,  I  beseech  you,  dear  Cousin  Richard,  leave  him  to 
the  pious  retirement  of  his  study.  Is  he  not  middle-aged,  and 
a  priest  into  the  bargain  ?  " 

"  Unquestionably,"  Dickie  said.  "  But,  pardon  me,  I  don't 
quite  see  what  that  has  to  do  with  it." 

Thereupon  Madame  de  Vallorbes  made  a  very  naughty,  lit- 
tle grimace  and  drummed  with  her  finger-tips  upon  the  table. 

"  La  !  la  !  "  she  cried,  "  you're  no  better  than  all  the  rest. 
Commend  me  to  a  clever  man  for  incapacity  to  apprehend 
what  is  patent  to  the  intelligence  of  the  most  ordinary  woman. 
Look  about  you." — Helen  sketched  in  their  surroundings  with 
a  quick  descriptive  gesture.  "  Observe  the  lights  and  shad- 
ows. The  ghostly  wavings  of  those  pale  curtains.  Smell  the 
potpourri  and  spices.  Think  of  the  ancestor  worship.  Lis- 
ten to  the  protesting  wind  and  rain.  See  the  mysterious  treas- 
ure you  hold  in  your  hand.  And  then  ask  me  what  middle- 
age  and  the  clerical  profession  have  to  do  with  all  this  !  Why, 
nothing,  just  precisely  nothing,  nothing  in  the  whole  world. 
That's  the  point  of  my  argument.  They'd  ruin  the  senti- 
ment, blight  the  romance,  hopelessly  blight  it — for  me  at 
least." 

The  conversation  was  slightly  embarrassed,  both  Helen  and 
Richard  talking  at  length,  yet  at  random.  But  she  knew  that 
it  was  thus,  and  not  otherwise,  that  it  behooved  them  to  talk. 
For  that  which  they  said  mattered  not  in  the  least.  The  thing 
said  served  as  a  veil,  as  a  cloak,  merely,  wherewith  to  disguise 
-those  much  greater  things  which,  perforce,  remained  unsaid. — 
To  cover  his  and  her  lively  consciousness  of  their  present  iso- 


LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERCI  225 

lation,  desired  these  many  days  and  now  obtained.  To  con- 
ceal the  swift,  silent  approaches  of  spirit  to  spirit,  so  full  of  in- 
quiry and  self-revelation,  fugitive  reserves  and  fugitive  dis- 
trusts. To  hide,  as  far  as  might  be,  the  existence  of  the  hun- 
gry, all-compelling  joie  de  vivre  which  is  begotten  whensoever 
youth  thus  seeks  and  finds  youth, — These  unspoken  and,  as: 
yet,  unspeakable  things  were  alone  of  real  moment,  making 
eyes  lustrous  and  lips  quick  with  tremulous,  uncalled-for  smiles 
irrespective  of  the  purport  of  their  speech. 

"  Ah !  but  that's  rather  rough  on  poor  dear  Julius,  you 
know,"  Dickie  said.     "  I  suppose  you  wanted  to  learn  all '^ 

"  Learn  ?  "  she  interrupted.  "  I  wanted  to  feel.  Don't 
you  know  there  is  only  one  way  any  woman  worth  the  name 
ever  really  learns — through  her  emotions  ?  Only  the  living 
feel.  Such  men  as  he,  if  they  are  sincere,  are  already  dead. 
He  would  have  made  feeling  impossible." 

A  perceptible  hush  descended  upon  the  room.  Richard 
Calmady's  hand  usually  was  steady  enough,  but,  in  the  silence, 
the  pearls  chattered  against  the  table.  He  went  rather  pale 
and  his  face  hardened. 

"  And  are  you  getting  anything  of  that  which  you  wanted^ 
Helen  ?  "  he  asked.  "  For  sometimes  in  the  last  few  days — 
since  you  have  been  here — I — I  have  wondered  if  perhaps  we 
were  not  all  like  that — all  dead " 

^'You  mean  do  I  get  emotion,  am  I  feeling?"  she  said. 
"Rest  contented.  Much  is  happening.  Indeed  I  have 
doubted,  during  the  last  few  days,  since  I  have  been  herc^ 
whether  I  have  ever  known  what  it  is  to  feel  actually  and  se- 
riously before." 

She  sat  down  at  right  angles  to  him,  resting  her  elbows  upon 
the  table,  her  chin  upon  her  folded  hands,  leaning  a  little 
towards  him.  One  of  those  pleasant  heats  swept  over  her, 
flushing  her  delicate  skin,  lending  a  certain  effulgence  to  her 
beauty.  The  scent  of  roses  long  faded  hung  in  the  air.  But 
here  was  a  rose  sweeter  far  than  they.  No  white  rose  of  par- 
adise, it  must  be  confessed.  Rather  like  her  immortal  name- 
sake, that  classic  Helen,  was  she  rosa  mundi^  glowing  with 
warmth  and  colour,  rose-red  rose  altogether  of  this  dear, 
naughty,  lower  world  ? 

"  Richard,"  she  said  impulsively,  "  why  don't  you  under- 
stand ?     Why  do  you  underrate  your  own  power  ?     Don't  you 


226  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

know  that  you  are  quite  the  most  moving,  the  most  attractive — 
w^ell — cousin,  a  woman  ever  had  ?  " 

She  looked  closely  at  him,  her  lips  a  little  parted,  her  head 
thrown  back. 

"  Life  is  sweet,  dear  cousin.  Reckon  with  yourself  and 
with  it,  and  live — live." — Then  she  put  out  her  hand  and  held 
up  the  crystal  between  her  face  and  his.  "  There,"  she  went 
on,  "  tell  me  about  this.  I  become  indiscrete,  thanks  I  sup- 
pose to  your  Brockhurst  habit  of  putting  back  the  clock,  and 
speak  with  truly  Elizabethan  frankness.  It  belongs  to  semi- 
barbaric  ages,  doesn't  it,  this,  to  tell  the  true  truth  ?  Show  me 
this.     It  seems  rather  fascinating." 

And  Richard  obeyed  mechanically,  pointing  out  to  her  the 
signs  of  the  Zodiac,  those  of  the  planets,  and  other  figures  of 
occult  significance  engraved  on  the  encircling,  golden  bands. 
Showed  her  how  those  same  bands,  turning  on  a  pivot,  formed 
a  golden  cradle,  in  which  the  crystal  sphere  reposed.  He 
lifted  it  out  from  that  cradle,  moreover,  and  laid  it  in  the  softer 
cradle  of  her  palm.  And  of  necessity  in  the  doing  of  all  this, 
their  heads — his  and  hers — were  very  near  together,  and  their 
hands  met.  But  they  were  very  solemn  all  the  while,  solemn, 
eager,  busy,  as  two  babies  revealing  to  each  other  the  mysteries 
of  a  newly  acquired  toy.  And  it  seemed  to  Madame  de 
Vallorbes  that  all  this  was  as  pretty  a  bit  of  business  as  ever 
served  to  help  forward  such  gay  purposes  as  hers.  She  was 
pleased  with  herself  too — for  did  she  not  feel  very  gentle, 
very  sincere,  really  very  innocent  and  good  ? 

"  No,  hold  it  so,"  Richard  said,  rounding  her  fingers  care- 
fully, that  the  tips  of  them  might  alone  touch  the  surface  of 
the  crystal.  "Now  gaze  into  the  heart  of  it  steadily,  fixing 
your  will  to  see.  Pictures  will  come  presently,  dimly  at  first, 
as  in  a  mist.  Then  the  mist  will  lift  and  you  will  read  your 
own  fortune  and — perhaps — some  other  person's  fate." 

"  Have  you  ever  read  yours  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  mine's  of  a  sort  that  needs  no  crystal  to  reveal  it," 
he  answered,  with  a  queer  drop  in  his  voice.  ^'  It's  written  in 
rather  indecently  big  letters  and  plain  type.     Always  has  been." 

Helen  glanced  at  him.  His  words  whipped  up  her  sense  of 
drama,  fed  her  excitement.  But  she  bent  her  eyes  upon  the 
crystal  again,  and  the  hush  descended  once  more,  disturbed 
only  by  that  nervous  tapping  of  rain. 


LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERCI  227 

"  I  see  nothing,  nothing,"  she  said  presently.  "  And  there 
is  much  I  would  give  very  much  to  see." 

"  You  must  gaze  with  a  simple  intention."  The  young 
man's  voice  came  curiously  hoarse  and  broken.  "  Purify  your 
mind  of  all  desire." 

Helen  did  not  raise  her  head. 

"  Alas  !  if  those  are  the  conditions  of  revelation  my  chances 
of  seeing  are  extremely  limited.  To  purify  one's  mind  of  all 
desire  is  to  commit  emotional  suicide.  Of  course  I  desire,  all 
the  while  I  desire.  And  equally,  of  course,  you  desire. 
Every  one  who  is  human  and  in  their  sober  senses  must  da 
that.     Absence  of  desire  means  idiotcy,  or " 

"  Or  what  ?  " 

For  an  instant  she  looked  up  at  him,  a  very  devil  of  dainty 
malice  in  her  expression,  in  the  shrug  of  her  shoulders  too, 
beneath  their  fine  laces  and  the  affected  sobriety  of  that  same 
dull-blue,  poplin  gown. 

''  Or  priestly,  saintly  middle-age — from  which  may  heaven 
in  its  mercy  ever  deliver  us,"  she  said. 

Richard  shifted  his  position  a  little,  gathering  himself  back 
from  her  so  near  neighbourhood — a  fact  of  which  the  young 
lady  was  not  unaware. 

"  I'm  not  quite  sure  whether  I  echo  your  prayer,"  he  said 
slowly.  "  I  doubt  whether  that  attitude,  or  one  approximate 
to  it,  is  not  the  safest  and  best  for  some  of  us." 

"  Safest,  no  doubt."  Madame  de  Vallorbes'  eyes  were  bent 
on  the  crystal  sphere  again.  "  As  it  is  safer  to  decline  a  duel, 
than  go  out  and  meet  your  man.  Best  ?  On  that  point  you 
must  permit  me  to  hold  my  own  opinion.  The  word  best  has 
many  readings  according  to  the  connection  in  which  it  is  em« 
ployed.     Personally  I  should  always  fight." 

"Whatever  the  odds  ?  " 

"  Whatever  the  odds." — And  almost  immediately  Madame 
de  Vallorbes  uttered  a  little  cry,  curiously  at  variance  with 
her  bold  words.  "  Something  is  moving  inside  the  crystal, 
something  is  coming.  I  don't  half  like  it,  Richard.  Perhaps 
we  are  tempting  Providence.  Yes,  it  moves,  it  moves,  like 
mist  rising  off  a  river.  It  is  poisonous.  Some  woman  has 
looked  into  this  before — a  woman  of  my  temperament — and 
read  an  evil  fortune.  I  know  it.  Tell  me  quick,  how  did 
the  crystal  come  here,  to  whom  did  it  bclor^  ?  '* 


228  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

"  To  Mary  Stuart — Mary,  Queen  of  Scots/'  Dickie  said. 

'^Ah!  unhappy  woman,  ill-omened  woman.  You  should 
have  told  me  that  before  and  I  would  never  have  looked. 
Here  take  it,  take  it.  Lock  it  up,  hide  it.  Let  no  woman 
ever  look  in  it  again." 

As  she  spoke  Helen  crossed  herself  hastily,  pushing  the 
magic  ball  towards  him.  But,  as  though  endowed  with  life 
and  volition  of  its  own — or  was  it  merely  that  Dick's  hand 
was  even  yet  not  quite  of  the  steadiest  ? — it  evaded  his  grasp, 
fell  off  the  table  edge  and  rolled,  gleaming  moonlike,  far  across 
the  floor,  away  behind  the  pedestal  of  the  bronze  Pompeian 
Antinous,  into  the  dusky  shadow  of  those  ghostly-waving,  tur- 
quoise, satin  curtains. 

With  a  sense  of  catastrophe  upon  her  Helen  had  sprung  to 
her  feet. — Even  now,  standing  in  the  peaceful  warmth  of  the 
autumn  sunshine,  among  the  feeding  pea-fowl,  the  remem- 
brance of  it  caused  her  a  little  shiver.  For  at  sight  of  that 
gleaming  ball  hurrying  across  the  carpet,  all  the  nervousness, 
the  distrust  of  herself,  the  vague  spiritual  alarms,  which  had 
beset  her  on  first  entering  the  room,  returned  on  her  with  ten- 
fold force.  The  superstitious  terrors  of  the  convent-bred  girl 
mastered  the  light-hearted  scepticism  of  the  woman  of  the 
■world,  and  regions  of  sinister  possibility  seemed  disclosing 
themselves  around  her. 

^'  Oh  !  how  horrible  !     What  does  it  mean  ?  "  she  cried. 

And  Richard  answered  cheerily,  somewhat  astonished  at  her 
agitation,  trying  to  reassure  her. 

"  Mean  ?  Nothing,  except  that  I  was  abominably  awkward 
and  the  crystal  abominably  slippery.  What  does  it  matter? 
We  can  find  it  again  directly." 

Then,  self-forgctfu!  in  the  fulness  of  his  longing  to  pacify 
her,  Richard  had  pushed  his  chair  back  from  the  table,  intend- 
ing to  go  in  search  of  the  vagrant  jewel.  But  the  chair  was 
high,  and  its  make  not  of  the  most  solid  sort ;  and  so  he 
paused,  instinctively  calculating  the  amount  of  support  it  could 
be  trusted  to  render  him  in  his  descent.  And  during  that 
pause  Helen  had  felt  her  heart  stand  still.  She  set  her  little 
teeth  now,  recalling  it.  For  the  extent  of  his  deformity  was 
fully  apparent  for  once.  And,  apprehending  that  which  he 
proposed  to  do,  she  was  smitten  by  immense  curiosity  to 
realise  the  ultimate  of  the  grotesque  in  respect  of  his  appear- 


LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERCI  229 

ance  as  he  should  move,  walk,  grope  in  the  dimness  over  there 
after  the  lost  crystal.  But  there  are  some  indulgences  vi^hich 
can  be  bought  at  too  high  a  price,  and  along  with  the  tempta- 
tion to  gratify  her  curiosity  came  an  inteiisification  of  super- 
stitious alarm.  What  if  she  had  sinned,  and  trafficked  with 
diabolic  agencies,  in  trying  to  read  the  future  ?  Payment  of 
an  actively  disagreeable  character  might  be  exacted  for  that, 
and  would  not  such  payment  risk  disastrous  augmentation  if 
she  gratified  her  curiosity  thus  further  ?  Helen  de  Vallorbes 
became  quite  wonderfully  prudent  and  humane. 

"  No,  no,  don't  bother  about  it,  don't  move,  dear  Richard,"" 
she  cried.  "  Let  me  find  it  please.  I  saw  exactly  the  direc- 
tion in  which  it  went.'' 

And  to  emphasise  her  speech,  and  keep  the  young  man  in 
his  place,  she  laid  her  hands  persuasively  upon  his  shoulders. 
This  brought  her  charming  face,  so  pure  in  outline,  set  in  its 
aureole  of  honey-coloured  hair,  very  near  to  his,  she  look- 
ing down,  he  up.  And  in  this  position  the  two  remained 
longer  than  was  absolutely  necessary,  silent,  quite  still,  while 
the  air  grew  thick  with  the  push  of  unspoken  and  as  yet 
unspeakable  matters,  and  Helen's  hands  resting  upon  his 
shoulders  grew  heavy,  as  the  seconds  passed,  with  languorous 
weight. 

"  There  are  better  things  than  crystals  to  read  in,  after  all^ 
Richard,"  she  said  at  last.  Then  she  lifted  her  hands  almost 
brusquely  and  stepped  back.  "All  the  same  it  is  stupid  I 
should  have  to  go  away,"  she  continued,  speaking  more  to  her- 
self than  to  him.  "  I  am  happy  here.  And  when  I  am  happy^ 
it's  easy  to  be  good — and  I  like  to  be  good." 

She  crossed  the  room  and  passed  behind  the  bronze  Pom- 
peian  Antinous.  Under  the  shadow  of  the  curtains,  in  the 
angle  of  the  bay,  against  the  wainscot.  Queen  Mary's  magic 
ball  showed  softly  luminous.  Helen  could  have  believed  that 
it  watched  her.  She  hesitated  before  stooping  to  pick  it  up 
and  looked  over  her  shoulder  at  Richard  Calmady.  His  back 
was  towards  her,  his  chair  close  against  the  table  again.  He 
leaned  forward  on  his  elbows,  his  face  buried  in  his  hands. 
Something  in  the  bowed  head,  in  the  set  of  the  almost  crouch- 
ing figure  reassured  Madame  de  Vallorbes.  She  picked  up  the 
crystal  without  more  ado,  with,  indeed,  a  certain  flippancy  of 
gesture.     For  she  had  received  pleasing  assurance  that  she  had 


230  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

been  frightened  in  the  wrong  place,  and  that  the  eternal  laugh- 
ter was  very  completely  on  her  side  after  all. 

And  just  then  a  bell  had  rung  in  some  distant  quarter  of  the 
great  house.  Powell,  incarnation  of  decent  punctualities,  had 
appeared.  Whereupon  the  temperature  fell  to  below  normal 
from  fever-heat.  Drama,  accentuations  of  sensibility,  in  short 
all  the  unspoken  and  unspeakable,  withered  as  tropic  foliage  at 
a  touch  of  frost.  No  doubt  it  was  as  well,  Madame  de 
Vallorbes  reflected  philosophically,  since  the  really  psycho- 
logical moment  was  passed.  There  had  been  a  dinner  party 
last  night,  and  — 

But  here  the  young  lady's  reminiscences  broke  off  short. 
She  gathered  up  her  blue,  poplin,  scarlet-lined  skirts,  ran  down 
the  steps,  scattering  the  pea-fowl  to  right  and  left,  and 
hastened  across  the  gravel. 

"  Wait  half  a  minute  for  me,  dear  Aunt  Katherine,"  she 
cried.  "  Are  you  going  to  the  conservatories  ?  I  would  so 
like  to  see  them.     May  I  go  too  ?  " 

Lady  Calmady  stood  by  the  door  in  the  high,  red-brick 
wall.  She  wore  a  white,  lace  scarf  over  her  hair — turned  up 
and  back,  dressed  high,  as  of  old,  though  now  somewhat  gray 
upon  the  temples.  The  lace  was  tied  under  her  chin,  fram- 
ing her  face.  In  her  gray  dress  she  looked  as  some  stately, 
yet  gracious  lady  abbess  might — a  lady  abbess  who  had  known 
love  in  all  fulness,  yet  in  all  honour — a  lady  abbess  painted,  if 
such  happy  chance  could  be,  by  the  debonair  and  clean- 
hearted  Reynolds.  She  stood  smiling,  charmed — though  a 
trifle  unwillingly — by  the  brilliant  visionof  the  younger  woman, 

"  Assuredly  you  may  come  with  me,  if  it  would  amuse 
you,"  she  said. 

"  I  may  ?  Then  let  me  open  that  door  for  you.  La  !  la  1 
how  it  sticks.  Last  night's  rain  must  have  swelled  it ; "  and 
she  wrestled  unsuccessfully  with  the  lock. 

"  My  dear,  don't  try  any  more,"  Katherine  said.  "  You 
will  tire  yourself.  The  exertion  is  too  great  for  you.  I  will 
go  back  and  call  one  of  the  servants." 

'*  No,  no  ;  "  and  regardless  of  her  fine  laces,  and  trinkets, 
and  sables  Madame  de  Vallorbes  put  her  shoulder  against  the 
resisting  door  and  fairly  burst  it  open. 

"  See,"  she  cried,  breathless  but  triumphant,  "  I  am  very 
strong/ 


I.A  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERCI  231 

*^You  are  very  pretty,"  Katherine  said,  almost  involun- 
tarily. 

The  steeply-terraced  kitchen  gardens,  neat  box  edgings, 
wide  flower  borders  in  which  a  few  clumps  of  chrysanthemum 
and  Michaelmas  daisy  still  resisted  the  frost,  ranged  down  to 
greenish  brown  ponds  in  the  valley  bottom  spotted  with  busy, 
quacking  companies  of  white  ducks.  Beyond  was  an  ascend-  . 
ing  slope  of  thick  wood,  the  topmost  trees  of  which  showed 
bare  against  the  sky  line.  All  this  was  framed  by  the  arch  of 
the  door.  Madame  de  Vallorbes  glanced  at  it,  while  she 
pulled  down  the  soft  waves  of  hair,  which  her  late  exertions 
had  slightly  disarranged,  over  her  right  temple.  Then  she 
turned  impulsively  to  Lady  Calmady. 

"  Thank  you,  dear  Aunt  Katherine,"  she  said.  "  I  would 
so  like  you  to  like  me,  you  know." 

"  I  should  be  rather  unpardonably  difficult  to  please,  if  I 
did  not  like  you,  my  dear,"  Lady  Calmady  answered.  But 
she  sighed  as  she  spoke. 

The  two  women  moved  away,  side  by  side,  down  the  path 
to  the  glistering  greenhouses.  But  Camp,  who,  missing 
Richard,  had  followed  his  mistress  out  of  the  house  for  a 
leisurely  morning  potter,  turned  back  sulkily  across  the  gravel 
homewards,  his  tail  limp,  his  heavy  head  carried  low.  His 
instincts  were  conservative,  as  has  been  already  mentioned. 
He  was  suspicious  of  newcomers.  And  whoever  liked  this 
particular  newcomer,  Madame  de  Vallorbes,  he  was  sorry  to 
say — and  on  more  than  one  occasion  he  said  it  with  quite 
inconvenient  distinctness — he  did  not. 


CHAPTER  VI 

IN  WHICH  DICKIE  TRIES  TO  RIDE  AWAY  FROM  HIS  OWN 
SHADOW,  WITH  SUCH  SUCCESS  AS  MIGHT  HAVE  BEEN 
ANTICIPATED 

'  I  ^HAT  same  morning  Richard  was  up  and  out  early.     Fog 
had  followed  on  the  evening's  rain,  and  at  sunrise  still 
shrouded  all  the  landscape. 

"Let   her  ladyship   know   I   breakftist  at   the   stables   and 


232  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

shan't  be  in  before  luncheon/'  he  had  said  to  Powell  while 
settling  himself  in  the  saddle.  Then,  followed  by  a  groom,  he 
fared  forth.  The  house  vanished  phantom-like  behind  him, 
and  the  clang  of  the  iron  gates  as  they  swung  to  was  muffled 
by  the  heavy  atmosphere,  while  he  rode  on  by  invisible  ways 
across  an  invisible  land,  hemmed  in,  close-encompassed, 
passed  upon,  by  the  chill,  ashen  whiteness  of  the  fog. 

And  for  the  cold  silence  and  blankness  surrounding  him 
Richard  was  grateful.  It  was  restful — after  a  grim  fashion — 
and  he  welcomed  rest,  having  passed  a  but  restless  night. 
For  Dickie  had  been  the  victim  of  much  travail  of  spirit. 
His  imagination  vexed  him,  pricking  up  slumbering  lusts  of 
the  flesh.  His  conscience  vexed  him  likewise,  suggesting  that 
his  attitude  had  not  been  pure  cousinly  ;  and  this  shamed 
him,  since  he  was  still  singularly  unspotted  from  the  world, 
noble  modesties  and  decencies  still  paramount  in  him.  He 
was  keenly,  some  might  say  mawkishly,  sensible  of  the  stain 
and  dishonour  of  turning,  even  involuntarily  and  passingly, 
covetous  glances  upon  another  man's  goods.  In  sensation 
and  apprehension  he  had  lived  at  racing  pace  during  the  last 
few  days.  That  hour  in  the  Long  Gallery  last  night  had 
been  the  climax.  The  gates  of  paradise  had  opened  before 
him.  And,  since  opposites  of  necessity  imply  their  opposites, 
the  gates  of  hell  had  opened  likewise.  It  appeared  to  Dickie 
that  the  great  poets,  and  painters,  and  musicians,  the  great 
lovers  even,  had  nothing  left  to  tell  him — for  he  knew. 
Knew,  moreover,  that  his  Eden  had  come  to  him  with  the 
angel  of  the  fiery  sword  that  "  turneth  every  way"  standing 
at  the  threshold  of  it — knew,  yet  further,  as  he  had  never 
known  before,  the  immensity  of  the  difficulties,  disabilities, 
humiliations,  imposed  on  him  by  his  deformity.  Bitterly, 
nakedly,  he  called  his  trouble  by  that  offensive  name.  Then 
he  straightened  himself  in  the  saddle.  Yes,  welcome  the  cold 
weight  against  his  chest,  welcome  the  silence,  the  blankness, 
the  dead,  ashen  pallor  of  the  fog  ! 

But  just  where  the  tan  ride,  leading  down  across  the  road 
to  the  left  diverges  from  the  main  road,  this  source  of  nega- 
tive consolation  began  to  fail  him.  For  a  draw  of  fresher  air 
came  from  westward,  causing  the  blurred,  wet  branches  to 
quiver  and  the  pall  of  mist  to  gather,  and  then  break  and  melt 
under  its  wholesome  breath,  while  the  rays  of  the  laggard  sun, 


LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERCI  233 

clearing  the  edge  of  the  fir  forest,  eastward,  pierced  it,  hasten- 
ing its  dissolution.  Therefore  it  followed  that  by  the  time 
Richard  rode  in  under  the  stable  archway,  he  found  the  great 
yard  full  of  noise  and  confused  movement.  The  stable 
doors  stood  wide  along  one  side  of  the  quadrangle.  Stunted, 
boyish  figures  shambled  hither  and  thither,  unwillingly  desert- 
ing the  rem.nants  of  half-eaten  breakfasts,  among  the  iron 
mugs  and  platters  of  the  long,  deal  tables  of  the  refectory. 
Chifney  and  Preiston — the  head-lad — hurried  them,  shouting 
orders,  admonishing,  inciting  to  greater  rapidity  of  action. 
And  the  boys  were  sulky.  The  thick  morning  had  promoted 
hopes  of  an  hour  or  two  of  unwonted  idleness.  Now  those 
poor,  little  hopes  were  summarily  blighted.  Lazy,  pinched 
with  cold  by  the  raw  morning  air,  still  a  bit  hungry,  sick  even, 
or  downright  frightened,  they  must  mount  and  away — the  long 
line  of  race-horses  streaming,  in  single  file,  up  the  hillside  to 
the  exercising  ground — with  as  short  delay  as  possible,  or  Mr. 
Chifney  and  his  ash  stick  would  know  the  reason  why. 

There  were  elements  of  brutality  in  the  scene  from  which 
Richard  would,  oftentimes,  have  recoiled.  To-day  he  was 
selfish,  absorbed  to  the  point  of  callousness.  If  he  remarked 
them  at  all,  it  was  in  bitter  welcome,  as  he  had  welcomed  the 
chill  and  staring  blankness  of  the  fog.  He  was  indifferent  to 
the  fact  that  Chifney  was  harsh,  the  horses  testy  or  wicked, 
that  the  boys'  noses  were  red,  and  that  they  blew  their  purple 
fingers  before  laying  hold  of  the  reins  in  a  vain  attempt  to 
promote  circulation.  Dickie  sat  still  as  a  statue  in  the  midst 
of  all  the  turmoil,  the  handle  of  his  crop  resting  on  his  thigh, 
his  eyes  hot  from  sleeplessness  and  wild  thoughts,  his  face 
hard  as  marble. —  Unhappy  ?  Wasn't  he  unhappy  too  ? 
Suffer?  Well,  let  them  suff'er — within  reasonable  limits. 
Suffering  was  the  fundamental  law  of  existence.  They 
must  bow  to  the  workings  of  it  along  with  the  rest. 

But  one  wretched,  little  chap  fairly  blubbered.  He  had 
been  kicked  in  the  stomach  some  three  weeks  earlier,  and 
had  been  in  hospital.  This  was  his  first  morning  out.  He 
had  grown  soft,  and  was  light-headed,  his  knees  all  of  a  shake. 
By  means  of  voluminous  threats  Preiston  got  him  up.  But 
he  sat  his  horse  all  of  a  huddle,  as  limp  as  a  half-empty  sack 
of  chaff.  Richard  looked  on  feeling,  not  pity,  but  only  irrita- 
tion, finally  amounting  to  anger.     The  child's  whole  aspect 


234  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

and  the  sniveling  sounds  he  made  were  so  hatefully  ugly.  It 
disgusted  him. 

"  Here  Chifney,  leave  that  fellow  at  home/'  he  said. 
"  He's  no  good." 

"  He's  malingering,  Sir  Richard.  I  know  his  sort.  Give 
in  to  him  now  and  we  shall  have  the  same  game,  and  worse, 
over  again  to-morrow." 

"  Very  probably,"  Richard  answered.  ''  Only  it  is  evident 
he  has  no  more  hand  and  no  more  grip  than  a  sick  cat  to-day. 
We  shall  have  some  mess  with  him,  and  I'm  not  in  the  humour 
for  a  mess,  so  just  leave  him.  There  boy,  stop  crying.  Do 
you  hear  ? "  he  added,  wheeling  round  on  the  small  unfortu- 
nate. "  Mr.  Chifney  '11  give  you  another  day  off,  and  the 
doctor  will  see  you.  Only  if  he  reports  you  fit  and  you  give 
the  very  least  trouble  to-morrow,  you'll  be  turned  out  of  the 
stables  there  and  then.  We've  no  use  for  shirkers.  Do  you 
understand  ?  " 

In  spite  of  his  irritation,  the  hardness  of  Richard's  expres- 
sion relaxed  as  he  finished  speaking.  The  poor,  little  beggar 
was  so  abject — too  abject  indeed  for  common  decency,  since 
he  too,  after  all,  was  human.  Richard's  own  self-respect 
made  it  incumbent  upon  him  to  lift  the  creature  out  of  the  pit 
of  so  absolutely  unseemly  a  degradation.  He  looked  kindly 
at  him,  smiled,  and  promptly  forgot  all  about  him.  While  to 
the  boy  it  seemed  that  the  gods  had  verily  descended  in  the 
likeness  of  men,  and  he  would  have  bartered  his  little,  dirty, 
blear-eyed  rudiment  of  a  soul  thenceforward  for  another  such 
a  look  from  Richard  Calmady. 

Dickie  promptly  forgot  the  boy,  yet  some  virtue  must  have 
been  in  the  episode  for  he  began  to  feel  better  in  himself.  As 
the  horses  filed  away  through  the  misty  sunshine — Preiston 
riding  beside  the  fourth  or  fifth  of  the  string,  while  Richard 
and  Chifney  brought  up  the  rear,  his  chestnut  suiting  its  paces 
to  the  shorter  stride  of  the  trainer's  cob — the  fever  of  the 
night  cooled  down  in  him.  Half  thankfully,  half  amusedly, 
he  perceived  things  begin  to  assume  their  normal  relations. 
He  filled  his  lungs  with  the  pure  air,  felt  the  sun-dazzle  pleas- 
ant in  his  eyes.  He  had  run  somewhat  mad  in  the  last  twenty- 
four  hours  surely  ?  He  was  not  such  a  fatuous  ass  as  to  have 
mistaken  Helen's  frank  camaraderie^  her  bright  interest  in 
things,  her  charming  little  ways  of  showing  cousinly  regard. 


LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERCI  235 

for  some  deeper,  more  personal  feeling  ?  She  had  been 
divinely  kind,  bat  that  was  just  her — ^just  the  outcome  of  her 
delightful  nature.  She  would  go  away  on  Friday — Saturday 
perhaps — he  rather  hoped  Saturday — and  be  just  as  divinely 
kind  to  other  people.  And  then  he  shook  himself,  feeling  the 
languid  weight  of  her  hands  on  his  shoulders  again.  Would 
she — would —  ?  For  an  instant  he  wanted  to  get  at,  and  in- 
continently brain,  those  other  people.  After  which,  Richard 
mentally  took  himself  by  the  throat  and  proceeded  to  choke 
the  folly  out  of  himself.  Yes,  she  would  go  back  to  all  those 
other  people,  back  moreover  to  the  Vicomte  de  Vallorbes — 
whom,  by  the  way,  it  occurred  to  him  she  so  seldom  mentioned. 
Well,  we  don't  continually  talk  about  the  people  we  love  best, 
do  we,  to  comparative  strangers  ?  She  would  go  back  to  her 
husband — her  husband. — Richard  repeated  the  words  over  to 
himself  sternly,  trying  to  drive  them  home,  to  burn  them 
into  his  consciousness  past  all  possibility  of  forgetting. 

Anyhow,  she  had  been  wonderfully  sweet  and  charming  to 
him.  She  had  shown  him — quite  unconsciously,  of  course — 
what  life  might  be  for — for  somebody  else.  She  had  revealed  to 
him — what  indeed  had  she  not  revealed  !  He  remembered  the 
spirit  of  expectation  that  possessed  him  riding  back  through 
the  autumn  woods  the  day  he  first  met  her.  The  expectation 
had  been  more  than  justified  by  the  sequel.  Only — only — 
and  then  Dick  became  stern  with  himself  again.  For,  she 
having,  unconsciously,  done  so  much  for  him,  was  it  not  his 
first  duty  never  to  distress  her  ? — never  to  let  her  know  how 
much  deeper  it  had  all  gone  with  him  than  with  her? — never 
to  insult  her  beautiful  innocence  by  a  word  or  look  suggesting 
an  affection  less  frank  and  cousinly  than  her  own  ? 

Only,  since  even  our  strongest  purposes  have  moments  of 
lapse  and  weakness  in  execution,  it  would  be  safer,  perhaps,  not 
to  be  much  alone  with  her — since  she  didn't  know — how 
should  she  ?  Yes,  Richard  agreed  with  himself  not  to  loaf, 
to  allow  no  idle  hours.  He  would  ride,  he  would  see  to  busi- 
ness. There  were  a  whole  heap  of  estate  matters  claiming 
attention.  He  had  neglected  them  shamefully  of  late.  Un- 
questionably Helen  counted  for  very  much,  would  continue  to 
do  so.  He  supposed  he  would  carry  the  ache  of  certain  mem- 
ories about  with  him  henceforth  and  forever.  She  had  become 
part  of  the  very  fibre  of  his   life.     He  never  doubted  that. 


236  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

And  yet,  he  told  himself — assuming  a  second-hand  garment 
of  slightly  cynical  philosophy  which  suited  singularly  ill  with 
the  love-light  in  his  eyes,  there  radiantly  apparent  for  all  the 
world  to  see — that  woman,  even  the  one  who  first  shows  you 
you  have  a  heart — and  a  body  too,  worse  luck — even  she  is 
but  a  drop  in  the  vast  ocean  of  things.  There  remains  all  The 
Rest.  And  with  praiseworthy  diligence  Dickie  set  himself  to 
reckon  how  immensely  much  all  The  Rest  amounts  to.  There 
is  plenty,  exclusive  of  her,  to  think  about.  More  than  enough, 
indeed,  to  keep  one  hard  at  work  all  day,  and  send  one  to  bed 
honestly  tired,  to  sleeping-point,  at  night.  Politics  for  instance, 
science,  literature,  entertaining  little  controversial  rows  of  sorts 
— the  simple,  almost  patriarchal  duties  of  a  great  land-owner, 
pleasant  hobbies  such  as  the  collection  of  first  editions,  or  a 
pretty  taste  in  the  binding  of  favourite  books — the  observa- 
tion of  this  mysterious,  ever  young,  ever  fertile  nature  around 
him  now,  immutable  order  underlaying  ceaseless  change,  the 
ever  new  wonder  and  beauty  of  all  that,  and: — "  I  say,  Chif- 
ney,  isn't  the  brown  Lady-Love  filly  going  rather  short  on 
the  off  foreleg  ?  Anything  wrong  with  her  shoulder  ?  '' — 
and  sport.  Yes,  thank  God,  in  the  name  of  everything 
healthy  and  virile,  sport  and,  above  all,  horses — yes,  horses. 
Thus  did  Richard  Calmady  reason  with  and  essay  to  solace 
himself  for  the  fact  that  some  fruits  are  forbidden  to  him  who 
holds  honour  dear.  Reasoned  with  and  solaced  himself  to  such 
good  purpose,  as  he  fondly  imagined,  that  when,  an  hour  and 
a  half  later,  he  established  himself  in  the  trainer's  dining- 
room,  a  mighty  breakfast  outspread  before  him,  he  felt  quite 
another  man.  Racing  cups  adorned  the  chimneypiece  and 
sideboard,  portraits  of  race-horses  and  jockeys  adorned  the 
walls.  The  sun  streamed  in  between  the  red  rep  curtains, 
causing  the  pot-plants  in  the  window  to  give  off  a  pleasant 
scent,  and  the  canary,  in  his  swinging  blue  and  white  painted 
cage  above  them,  to  sing.  Mrs.  Chifney,  her  cheeks  pink. 
Her  manner  slightly  fluttered, — as  were  her  lilac  cap  strings, — 
presided  over  the  silver  tea  and  coffee  service,  admonished  the 
staid  and  bulky  tom-cat  who,  jumping  on  the  arm  of  Dickie's 
chair,  extended  a  scooping  tentative  paw  towards  his  plate,  and 
issued  gentle  though  peremptory  orders  to  her  husband  regarding 
the  material  needs  of  her  guest.  To  Mrs-  Chifney  such  enter- 
tain ings   as  the  present  marked  the  red-letter  days  of  her  cal- 


\ 


LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERCI  237 

cndar.  Temporarily  she  forgave  Chifney  the  doubtful  nature 
of  his  calling  and  his  occasional  outbreaks  of  profane  swearing 
alike.  She  ceased  to  regret  that  snug  might-have-been,  little, 
grocery  business  in  a  country  town.  She  forgot  even  to 
hanker  after  prayer  meetings,  anniversary  teas,  and  other  mild, 
soul-saving  dissipations  unauthorised  by  the  Church  of  Eng- 
land. She  ruffled  her  feathers,  so  to  speak,  and  cooed  to  the 
young  man  half  in  feudal,  half  in  unsatisfied  maternal  affec- 
tion— for  Mrs.  Chifney  was  childless.  And  it  followed  that 
as  he  teased  her  a  little,  going  back  banteringly  on  certain  ac- 
cepted subjects  of  difference  between  them,  praised,  and  made 
a  hole,  in  her  fresh-baked  rolls,  her  nicely  browned,  fried  pota- 
toes, her  clear,  crinkled  rashers,  assuring  her  it  gave  one  an 
appetite  merely  to  sit  down  in  a  room  so  shiningly  clean  and 
spick  and  span,  she  was  supremely  happy.  And  Dickie  was 
happy  too,  and  blessed  the  exercise,  the  food,  and  the 
society  of  these  simple  persons,  which,  after  his  evil  night, 
seemed  to  have  restored  to  him  his  wiser  and  better  self. 

"  He  always  was  the  noblest  looking  young  gentleman  I 
ever  saw,"  Mrs.  Chifney  remarked  subsequently  to  her  hus- 
band. "  But  here  at  breakfast  this  morning,  when  he  said, 
*If  you  won't  be  shocked,  Mrs.  Chifney,  I  believe  I  could 
manage  a  second  helping  of  that  game  pie,'  his  face  was  like 
a  very  angel's  from  heaven.  Unearthly  beautiful,  Thomas, 
and  yet  a  sort  of  pain  at  the  back  of  it.  It  gave  me  a  regular 
turn.  I  had  to  shed  a  few  tears  afterwards  when  I  got  alone 
by  myself." 

"You're  one  of  those  that  see  more  than's  there,  half  your 
time,  Maria,"  the  trainer  answered,  with  an  unusual  effort 
at  sarcasm,  for  he  was  not  wholly  easy  about  the  young  man 
himself. — "There's  something  up  with  him,  and  danged  if  I 
know  what  it  is."     But  these  reflections  he  kept  to  himself. 

Dr.  Knott,  later  that  same  day,  made  reflections  of  a  similar 
nature.  For  though  Dickie  adhered  valiantly  to  his  good  res- 
olutions— going  out  with  the  second  lot  of  horses  between  ten 
and  eleven  o'clock,  riding  on  to  Banister's  farm  to  inspect  the 
new  barn  and  cowsheds  in  course  of  erection,  then  hurrying 
down  to  Sandyfield  Street  and  listening  to  long  and  heated 
arguments  regarding  a  right-of-way  reported  to  exist  across 
the  meadows  skirting  the  river  just  above  the  bridge,  a  right 
Strongly   denied   by   the  present  occupier.     Notwithstanding 


238  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

these  improving  and  public-spirited  employments,  the  love« 
light  grew  in  his  eyes  all  through  the  long  morning,  causing 
his  appearance  to  have  something,  if  not  actually  angelic,  yet 
singularly  engaging,  about  it.  For,  unquestionably,  next  to  a 
fortunate  attachment,  an  unfortunate  one,  if  honest,  is  among 
the  most  inspiring  and  grace-begetting  of  possessions  granted 
to  mortals.  Helen  must  never  know — that  was  well  under- 
stood. Yet  the  more  Dickie  thought  the  whole  affair  over, 
the  more  he  recognised  the  fine  romance  of  thus  cherishing  a 
silent  and  secret  devotion.  He  was  very  young  in  this  line  as 
yet,  it  may  be  observed.  Meanwhile  it  was  nearly  twa 
o'clock.  He  would  need  to  ride  home  sharply  if  he  was  to  be 
in  time  for  luncheon.  And  at  luncheon  he  would  meet  her. 
And  remembering  that,  his  heart — traitorous  heart — beat 
quick,  and  his  lips — traitorous  lips — began  to  repeat  her 
name.  Thus  do  the  gods  of  life  and  death  love  to  play  chuck- 
farthing  with  the  wise  purposes  of  men,  the  theory  of  the 
eternal  laughter  having  a  root  of  truth  in  it,  as  it  would  seem, 
after  all !  And  there  ahead  of  him,  under  the  shifting,  dappled 
shadow  of  the  overarching  firs.  Dr.  Knott's  broad,  cumber- 
some back,  and  high,  two-wheeled  trap  blocked  the  road^ 
while  Timothy,  the  old  groom, — stifF-kneed  now  and  none 
too  active, — slowly  pushed  open  the  heavy,  white  gate  of  the 
inner  park. 

As  Richard  rode  up,  the  doctor  turned  in  his  seat  and  looked 
at  him  from  under  his  rough  eyebrows,  while  his  loose  lips 
worked  into  a  half-ironical  smile.  He  loved  this  lad  of  great 
fortune,  and  great  misfortune,  more  tenderly  than  he  quite  cared 
to  own.  Then,  as  Dick  checked  his  horse  beside  the  cart,  he 
growled  out : — 

"  No  need  to  make  anxious  Inquiries  regarding  your  healthy 
young  sir.  What  have  you  been  doing  with  yourself,  eh  ? 
You  look  as  fit  as  a  fiddle  and  as  fresh  as  paint." 

"If  I  look  as  I  feel  I  must  look  ravenously  hungry,"" 
Richard  answered,  flushing  up  a  little.     "  I've  been  out  since 


SIX." 


"  Had  some  breakfast  ?  " 

"  Oh  dear,  yes  !  Enough  to  teach  one  to  know  what  a  jolljr 
thing  a  good  meal  is,  and  make  one  wish  for  another." 

"Hum!"  Dr.  Knott  said.  "That's  a  healthy  state  of 
affairs,  anyhow.     Young  horses  going  well  ?  " 


LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERCI  239 

"  Famously." 

"  Bless  me,  everything's  beer  and  skittles  with  you  just  at 
present  then  !  " 

Richard  looked  away  down  the  smooth  yellow  road  whereon 
the  dappled  shadows  kissed  and  mingled,  mingled  and  kissed, 
and  his  heart  cried  "  Helen,  Helen,"  once  again. 

"  Oh  !  I  don't  know  about  that,"  he  said.  "  I  get  my 
share  as  well  as  the  rest  I  suppose — at  least — anyway  the 
horses  are  doing  capitally  this  season." 

"I  should  like  to  have  a  look  at  them." 

"  Oh,  well  you've  only  got  to  say  when,  you  know.  I 
shall  be  only  too  delighted  to  show  them  you." 

As  he  walked  the  trap  through  the  gateway,  Dr.  Knott 
watched  Richard  riding  alongside. — "What's  up  with  the 
boy,"  he  thought.  "  His  face  is  as  keen  as  a  knife,  and  as 
soft  as — God  help  us,  I  hope  there's  no  sweethearting  on 
hand  !  It's  bound  to  come  sooner  or  later,  but  the  later  the 
better,  for  it'll  be  a  risky  enough  set  out,  come  when  it  may. 
— Ah,  look  out  there  now,  you  old  fool," — this  to  Timothy, 
— "  don't  go  missing  the  step  and  laying  yourself  up  with 
broken  ribs  for  another  three  months,  just  when  my  work's  at 
its  heaviest.     Be  careful,  can't  you  ?  " 

"  But  why  not  come  in  to  luncheon  now  ?  "  Richard  said, 
wisdom  whipping  up  good  resolutions  once  more,  and  bidding 
him  check  the  gladness  that  gained  on  him  at  thought  of  that 
approaching  meeting.  Oh  yes!  he  would  be  discreet,  he 
would  erect  barriers,  he  would  flee  temptation.  Knott's 
presence  offered  a  finely  rugged  barrier,  surely.  Therefore, 
he  repeated,  "  Come  in  now.  My  mother  will  be  delighted 
to  see  you,  and  wc  can  have  a  look  round  the  stables  after- 
wards." 

"  I'll  come  fast  enough  if  Lady  Calmady  will  take  me  as  I 
am.  Workaday  clothes,  and  second  best  lot  at  that.  You're 
alone,  I  suppose  ?  " 

He  watched  the  young  man  as  he  spoke.  Noted  the  lift  of 
his  chin,  and  the  slightly  studied  indifference  of  his  manner. 

"  No,  for  once  we're  not.  But  that  doesn't  matter.  My 
Uncle  William  Ormiston  is  with  us.     You  remember  him  ?  " 

"  I  remember  his  wife." 

"  Oh  !  she's  not  here,"  Dickie  said,  "  Only  he  and  his 
daughter,  Madame  de  Vallorbes.     You'll  come  ?  " 


240  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

"  Oh  !  dear  yes,  I'll  come,  if  you'll  be  good  enough  to  pre- 
pare your  ladies  for  a  rough-looking  customer.  Don't  let  me 
keep  you.  Wonder  what  the  daughter's  like  ?  "  he  added  to 
himself.     ^'  The  mother  was  a  bit  of  a  baggage." 


CHAPTER  VII 

WHEREIN    THE    READER    IS  COURTEOUSLY  INVITED  TO  IMPROVE 
HIS    ACQUAINTANCE    WITH    CERTAIN    PERSONS    OF    qUALITY 

XJUT  Richard  might  have  spared  himself  the  trouble  of 
'^  erecting  barriers  against  too  intimate  intercourse  with 
his  cousin.  Providence,  awaking  suddenly  as  it  would  seem, 
to  the  perils  of  his  position,  had  already  seen  to  all  that.  For 
since  he  went  forth,  hot-eyed  and  hot-headed,  into  the  blank 
chill  of  the  fog,  the  company  at  Brockhurst — as  Powell  an- 
nounced to  him — had  suffered  large  and  unlooked-for  increase* 
Ludovic  Quayle  was  the  first  of  the  self-invited  guests  to 
appear  when  Richard  was  settled  in  the  dining-room.  He 
sauntered  up  to  the  head  of  the  table  with  his  accustomed  air 
of  slightly  supercilious  inquiry,  as  of  one  who  expects  to  meet 
little  save  fools  and  foolishness,  yet  suffers  these  gladly,  being 
quite  secure  of  his  own  wisdom. 

"  How  are  you,  Dickie  ?  "  he  said.  '*  Fairly  robust  I  hope, 
for  the  Philistines  are  upon  you.  Still  it  might  have  been 
worse.  I  have  done  what  I  could.  My  father,  who  has  never 
grasped  that  there  is  an  element  of  comedy  in  the  numerical 
strength  of  his  family,  wished  to  bring  us  over  a  party  of 
eight.  But  I  stopped  that.  Four,  as  I  tried  to  make  him 
comprehend,  touched  the  limits  of  social  decency.  He  didn't 
comprehend.  He  rarely  does.  But  he  yielded,  which  was 
more  to  the  point  perhaps.  Understand  though,  we  didn't 
propose  to  add  surprise  to  the  other  doubtful  blessings  of  our 
descent  on  you.  I  wrote  to  you  yesterday,  but  it  appears  you 
went  out  at  some  unearthly  hour  this  morning  superior  alike 
to  the  state  of  the  weather  and  arrival  of  your  letters." 

"  Fine  thing  going  out  early — excellent  thing  going  out 
early.     Very  glad  to  see  you,  Calmady,  and  very  kind  indeed 


LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERCI  241 

of  you  and  Lady  Calmady  to  take  us  In  in  this  friendly  way 
and  show  us  hospitality  at  such  short  notice " 

This  from  Lord  P'aliowfeild — a  remarkably  tall,  large,  and 
handsome  person.  He  affected  a  slightly  antiquated  style  of 
dress,  with  a  sporting  turn  to  it, — coats  of  dust  colour  or  gray, 
notably  long  as  to  the  skirts,  well  fitted  at  the  waist,  the  sur- 
face of  them  traversed  by  heavy  seams.  His  double  chin 
rested  within  the  points  of  a  high,  white  collar,  and  was  fur- 
ther supported  by  voluminous,  black,  satin  stock.  His  face, 
set  in  soft,  gray  hair  and  gray  whisker,  brushed  well  forward, 
suggested  that  of  a  benign  and  healthy  infant — an  infant,  it 
may  be  added,  possessed  of  a  small  and  particularly  pretty 
mouth.  Save  in  actual  stature,  indeed,  his  lordship  had  never 
quite  succeeded  in  growing  up.  Very  full  of  the  milk  of 
human  kindness,  he  earnestly  wished  his  fellow-creatures — 
gentle  and  simple  alike — to  be  as  contented  and  happy  as  he, 
almost  invariably,  himself  was.  When  he  had  reason  to  be- 
lieve them  otherwise,  it  perplexed  and  worried  him  greatly. 
It  followed  that  he  was  embarrassed,  apologetic  even,  in  Rich- 
ard Calmady's  presence.  He  felt  vaguely  responsible  as  for 
some  neglected  duty,  as  though  there  was  something  somehow 
which  he  ought  to  set  right.  And  this  feeling  harassed  him, 
increasing  the  natural  discursiveness  and  inconsequence  of  his 
speech.  He  was  so  terribly  nervous  of  forgetting  and  of  hurt- 
ing the  young  man's  feelings  by  saying  the  wrong  thing,  that 
all  possible  wrong  things  got  upon  his  brain,  with  the  disas- 
trous result  that  of  course  he  ended  by  saying  them.  In  face 
of  a  person  so  sadly  stationary  as  poor  Dick,  moreover,  his 
own  perfect  ability  to  move  freely  about  appeared  to  him  as 
little  short  of  discourteous,  not  to  say  coarse.  He,  therefore, 
tried  to  keep  very  still,  with  the  consequence  that  he  devel- 
oped an  inordinate  tendency  to  fidget.  Altogether  Lord  Fal- 
lowfeild  did  not  show  to  advantage  in  Richard  Calmady's 
company. 

"Ah,  yes  !  fine  thing  going  out  early,"  he  repeated. 
"  Always  made  a  practice  of  it  myself  at  your  age,  Calmady. 
Can't  stand  doctor's  stuff,  don't  believe  in  it,  never  did. 
Though  I  like  Knott,  good  fellow  Knott — al^yays  have  liked 
Knott.  But  never  was  a  believer  in  drugs.  Nothing  better 
than  a  good  sharp  walk,  now,  early,  really  early  before  the 
frost's  out  of  the  grass.     Excellent  for  the  liver  walking ** 


242  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

Here,  perceiving  that  his  son  Ludovic  looked  very  hard  at 
him,  eyebrows  raised  to  most  admonitory  height,  he  added 
hastily  — 

"  Eh  ? — yes,  of  course,  or  riding.  Riding,  nothing  like 
that  for  health — better  exercise  still " 

"  Is  it  ?  "  Richard  put  in.  He  was  too  busy  with  his  own 
thoughts  to  be  greatly  affected  by  Lord  Fallowfeild's  blunders 
just  then.  "  Fm  glad  to  know  you  think  so.  You  see  it's  a 
matter  in  which  I'm  not  very  much  of  a  judge." 

"  No — no — of  course  not. — Queer  fellow  Calmady,"  Lord 
Fallowfeild  added  to  himself.  "  Uncommonly  sharp  way  he 
has  of  setting  you  down." 

But  just  then,  to  his  relief,  Lady  Calmady,  Lady  Louisa 
Barking,  and  pretty^Jittle  Lady  Constance  Quayle  entered  the 
room  together.  Mr.  Ormiston  and  John  Knott  followed  en- 
gaged in  close  conversation,  the  rugged,  rough-hewn  aspect  of 
the  letter  presenting  a  strong  contrast  to  the  thin,  tall  figure 
and  face,  white  and  refined  to  the  point  of  emaciation,  of  the 
diplomatist.  Julius  March,  accompanied  by  Camp — still 
carrying  his  tail  limp  and  his  great  head  rather  sulkily — brought 
up  the  rear.  And  Dickie,  while  greeting  his  guests,  disposing 
their  places  at  table,  making  civil  speeches  to  his  immediate 
neighbour  on  the  left, — Lady  Louisa, — smiling  a  good-morn- 
ing to  his  mother  down  the  length  of  the  table,  felt  a  wave  of 
childish  disappointment  sweep  over  him.  For  Helen  came 
not,  and  with  a  great  desiring  he  desired  her.  Poor  Dickie,  so 
wise,  so  philosophic  in  fancy,  so  enviably,  disastrously  young 
in  fact ! 

"  Oh  !  thanks.  Lady  Louisa — it's  so  extremely  kind  of  you 
to  care  to  come.  The  fog  was  rather  beastly  this  morning 
wasn't  it  ?  And  I  shouldn't  be  surprised  if  it  came  down  on 
us  again  about  sunset.  But  it's  a  charming  day  meanwhile. — 
There  Ludovic  please, — next  Dr.  Knott.  We'll  leave  this 
chair  for  Madame  de  Vallorbes.     She's  coming,  I  suppose  ?  '* 

And  Richard  glanced  towards  the  door  again,  and,  so  doing, 
became  aware  that  little  Lady  Constance,  sitting  between 
Lord  Fallowfeild  and  Julius  March,  was  staring  at  him.  She 
had  an  innocent  face,  a  small,  feminine  copy  of  her  father's 
save  that  her  eyes  were  set  noticeably  far  apart.  This  gave 
her  a  slow,  ruminant  look,  distinctly  attractive.  She  reminded 
Richard   of    a   gentle,  well-conditioned,  sweet-breathed   calf 


LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERCI  243 

staring  over  a  bank  among  ox-eyed  daisies  and  wild  roses.  As 
soon  as  she  perceived — but  Lady  Constance  did  not  perceive 
anything  very  rapidly — that  he  observed  her,  she  gave  her 
whole  attention  to  the  contents  of  her  plate  and  her  colour 
deepened  perceptibly. 

"  Pretty  country  about  you  here,  uncommonly  pretty,"  Lord 
Fallowfeild  was  saying  in  response  to  some  remark  of  Lady 
Calmady's.  "Always  did  admire  it.  Always  liked  a  meet  on 
this  side  of  the  county  when  I  had  the  hounds.  Very  pleasant 
friendly  spirit  on  this  side  too.  Now  Cathcart,  for  instance — 
sensible  fellow  Cathcart,  always  have  liked  Cathcart,  remark- 
ably sensible  fellow.  Plain  man  though — quite  astonishingly 
plain.  Daughter  very  much  like  him,  I  remember.  Misfor- 
tune for  a  girl  that.  Always  feel  very  much  for  a  plain  woman. 
She  married  well  though — can't  recall  who  just  now,  but 
somebody  we  all  know.     Who  was  it  now.  Lady  Calmady  ?  " 

Between  that  haunting  sense  of  embarrassment,  and  the 
kindly  wish  to  carry  things  off  well,  and  promote  geniality. 
Lord  Fallowfeild  spoke  loud.  At  this  juncture  Mr.  Quayle 
folded  his  hands  and  raised  his  eyes  devoutly  to  heaven. 

"Oh,  my  father!  oh,  my  father !  "  he  murmured.  Then 
he  leant  a  little  forward  watching  Lady  Calmady. 

"  But,  as  you  may  remember,  Mary  Cathcart  had  a  charm- 
ing figure,"  she  was  saying,  very  sweetly,  essaying  to  soften 
the  coming  blow. 

"  Ah  !  had  she  though  ?  Great  thing  a  good  figure.  I 
knew  she  married  well." 

"  Naturally  I  agree  with  you  there.  I  suppose  one  always 
thinks  one's  own  people  the  most  delightful  in  the  world. 
She  married  my  brother." 

"  Did  she  though  !  "  Lord  Fallowfeild  exclaimed,  with  much 
interest.  Then  suddenly  his  tumbler  stopped  half-way  to  his 
mouth,  while  he  gazed  horror-stricken  across  the  table  at  Mr. 
Ormiston. 

"  Oh  no,  no  !  not  that  brother,"  Katherine  added  quickly. 
"The  younger  one,  the  soldier.  You  wouldn't  remember 
him.  He's  been  on  foreign  service  almost  ever  since  his  mar- 
riage.    They  are  at  the  Cape  now." 

"  Oh  !  ah  !  yes — indeed,  are  they  ?  "  he  exclaimed.  He 
breathed  more  easily.  Those  few  thousand  miles  to  the  Cape 
were  a  great  comfort  to  him.     A  man  could  not  overhear  your 


244  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

strictures  on  his  wife's  personal  appearance  at  that  distance 
anyhow. — "  Very  charming  woman,  uncommonly  tactful 
woman,  Lady  Calmady,"  he  said  to  himself  gratefully. 

Meanwhile  Lady  Louisa  Barking,  at  the  other  end  of  the 
table,  addressed  her  discourse  to  Richard  and  Julius,  on  either 
side  of  her,  in  the  high,  penetrating  key  affected  by  certain 
ladies  of  distinguished  social  pretensions.  Whether  this  man- 
ner of  speech  implies  a  fine  conviction  of  superiority  on  the 
part  of  the  speaker,  or  a  conviction  that  all  her  utterances  are 
replete  with  intrinsic  interest,  it  is  difficult  to  determine.  Cer- 
tain it  is  that  Lady  Louisa  practically  addressed  the  table,  the 
attendant  men-servants,  all  creation  in  point  of  fact,  as  well  as 
her  two  immediate  neighbours.  Like  her  father  she  was  large 
and  handsome.  But  her  expression  lacked  his  amiability,  her 
attitude  his  pleasing  self-distrust.  In  age  she  was  about  six- 
and-thirty  and  decidedly  mature  for  that.  She  possessed  a  re- 
markable power  of  concentrating  her  mind  upon  her  own 
affairs.  She  also  laboured  under  the  impression  that  she  was 
truly  religious,  listening  weekly  to  the  sermons  of  fashionable 
preachers  on  the  convenient  text  that  "worldliness  is  next  to 
godliness "  and  entertaining  prejudices,  finely  unqualified  by 
accurate  knowledge,  against  the  abominable  errors  of  Rome. 

"  I  was  getting  so  terribly  fagged  with  canvassing  that  my 
doctor  told  me  I  really  must  go  to  Whitney  and  recruit.  Of 
course  Mr.  Barking  is  perfectly  secure  of  his  seat.  I  am  in 
no  real  anxiety,  I  am  thankful  to  say.  He  does  not  speak 
much  in  the  House.  But  I  always  feel  speaking  is  quite  a 
minor  matter,  don't  you  ?  " 

"  Doubtless,"  Julius  said,  the  remark  appearing  to  be  de- 
livered at  him  in  particular. 

"  The  great  point  is  that  your  party  should  be  able  to  depend 
absolutely  upon  your  loyalty.  Being  rather  behind  the  scenes, 
as  I  can't  help  being,  you  know,  I  do  feel  that  more  and  more. 
And  the  party  depends  absolutely  upon  Mr.  Barking.  He  has 
so  much  moral  stamina,  you  know.  That  is  what  they  all 
feel.  He  is  ready  at  any  moment  to  sacrifice  his  private  con- 
victions to  party  interests.  And  so  few  members  of  any  real 
position  are  willing  to  do  that.  And  so,  of  course,  the  leaders 
do  depend  on  him.  All  the  members  of  the  Government  con- 
sult him  in  private." 

"  That  is  very  flattering,"  Richard  remarked. — Still  Helen 


LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERCI  245 

tarried,  while  again,  glancing  in  the  direction  of  the  door,  he 
encountered  Lady  Constance's  mild,  ruminant  stare. 

"  Can  one  pronounce  anything  flattering  when  one  sees  it  to 
be  so  completely  deserved  ?  "  Ludovic  Quayle  inquired  in 
his  most  urbane  manner.  "  Prompt  and  perpetual  sacrifice  of 
private  conviction  to  party  interest,  for  example — how  can 
such  devotion  receive  recognition  beyond  its  deserts  ?  " 

"  Do  have  some  more  partridge,  Lady  Louisa,"  Richard 
put  in  hastily. 

"  In  any  case  such  recognition  is  very  satisfactory. — No 
more,  thank  you.  Sir  Richard,"  the  lady  replied,  not  without  a 
touch  of  acerbity.  Ludovic  was  very  clever  no  doubt ;  but 
his  comments  often  struck  her  as  being  in  equivocal  taste.  He 
gave  a  turn  to  your  words  you  did  not  expect  and  so  broke  the 
thread  of  your  conversation  in  a  rather  exasperating  fashion. 
*'  Very  satisfactory,"  she  repeated.  ^'  And,  of  course,  the  con- 
stituency is  fully  informed  of  the  attitude  of  the  Government 
towards  Mr.  Barking,  so  that  serious  opposition  is  out  of  the 
question." 

"Oh  !  of  course,"  Richard  echoed. 

"  Still  I  feel  it  a  duty  to  canvass.  One  can  point  out  many 
things  to  the  constituents  in  their  own  homes  which  might  not 
come  quite  so  well,  don't  you  know,  from  the  platform.  And 
of  course  they  enjoy  seeing  one  so  much." 

"  Of  course,  it  makes  a  great  change  for  them,"  Richard 
echoed  dutifully^ 

"  Exactly,  and  so  on  their  account,  quite  putting  aside  the 
chance  of  securing  a  stray  vote  here  or  there,  I  feel  it  a  duty 
not  to  spare  myself,  but  to  go  through  with  it  just  for  their 
sakes,  don't  you  know." 

"  My  sister  is  nothing  if  not  altruistic,  you'll  find, 
Calmady,"  A4r.  Quayle  here  put  in  in  his  most  exquisitely 
amiable  manner. 

But  now  encouraged  thereto  by  Lady  Calmady,  Lord 
Fallowfeild  had  recovered  his  accustomed  serenity  and  dis- 
coursed with  renewed  cheerfulness. 

"  Great  loss  to  this  side  of  the  county,  my  poor  friend 
Denier,"  he  remarked.  "  Good  fellow  Denier — always  liked 
Denier.  Stood  by  him  from  the  first — so  did  your  son. — No, 
no,  pardon  me — yes,  to  be  sure — excellent  claret  this — never 
tasted  a  better  luncheon  claret. — Bit  there  was  a  little  preju- 


246  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY     . 

dice,  little  narrowness  of  feeling  about  Denier,  when  he  first 
bought  Grimshott  and  settled  down  here.  Self-made  man^ 
you  see,  Denier.  Entirely  self-made.  Father  was  a  clergy- 
man, I  believe,  and  I'm  told  his  grandfather  kept  an  umbrella 
shop  in  the  Strand.  But  a  very  able,  right-minded  man 
Denier,  and  wonderfully  good-natured  fellow,  always  willing 
to  give  you  an  opinion  on  a  point  of  law.  Great  advantage 
to  have  a  first-rate  authority  like  that  to  turn  to  in  a  legal 
difficulty.  Very  useful  in  county  business  Denier,  and  laid 
hold  of  country  life  wonderfully,  understood  the  obligations 
of  a  land-owner.  Always  found  a  fox  in  that  Grimshott  gorse 
of  his,  eh,  Knott  ?  " 

"  Fox  that  sometimes  wasn't  very  certain  of  his  country,'^ 
the  doctor  rejoined.  "  Hailed  from  the  neighbourhood  of  the 
umbrella  shop  perhaps,  and  wanted  to  get  home  to  it." 

Lord  Fallowfeild  chuckled. 

^'  Capital,"  he  said,  "  very  good — capital.  Still,  it's  a  great 
relief  to  know  of  a  sure  find  like  that.  Keeps  the  field 
in  a  good  temper.  Yes,  few  men  whose  death  I've  regretted 
more  than  poor  Denier's.  I  miss  Denier.  Not  an  old  man 
either.  Shouldn't  have  let  him  slip  through  your  fingers  so 
early,  Knott,  eh  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  that's  a  question  of  forestry,"  John  Knott  answered 
grimly.  "  If  one  kept  the  old  wood  standing,  where  would  the 
saplings'  chances  come  in  ? " 

"  Oh  !  ah  !  yes — never  thought  of  that  before," — and  think- 
ing of  it  now  the  noble  lord  became  slightly  pensive.  "  Wonder 
if  it's  unfair  my  keeping  Shotover  so  long  out  of  the  prop- 
erty ?  "  he  said  to  himself.  "  Amusing  fellow  Shotover,  very 
fond  of  Shotover — but  extravagant  fellow,  monstrously  ex- 
travagant." 

"Lord  Denier's  death  gave  our  host  here  a  seat  on  the 
local  bench  just  at  the  right  moment,"  the  doctor  went  on. 
"  One  man's  loss  is  another  man's  opportunity.  Rather 
rough,  perhaps,  on  the  outgoing  man,  but  then  things  usually 
are  pretty  rough  on  the  outgoing  man  in  my  experience." 

"  I  suppose  they  are,"  Lord  Fallowfeild  said,  rather  ruefully, 
his  face  becoming  preternaturally  solemn. 

"  Not  a  doubt  of  it.  The  individual  may  get  justice.  I 
hope  he  does.  But  mercy  is  kept  for  special  occasions — few 
and  far  between.     One  must  take  things  on  the  large  scale. 


LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERCI  247 

Then  you  find  they  dovetail  very  neatly/'  Knott  continued, 
with  a  somewhat  sardonic  mirthfulness.  The  simplicity  and 
perplexity  of  this  handsome,  kindly  gentleman,  amused  him 
hugely.  "  But  to  return  to  Lord  Denier — let  alone  my  skill, 
that  of  the  u'hole  medical  faculty  put  together  couldn't  have 
saved  him." 

"  Couldn't  it,  though  ?  "  said  Lord  Fallowfeild. 

"That's  just  the  bother  with  your  self-made  man.  He 
makes  himself — true.  But  he  spends  himself  physically  in  the 
making.  All  his  vitality  goes  in  climbing  the  ladder,  and  he's 
none  left  over  by  the  time  he  reaches  the  top.  Lord  Denier 
bad  worked  too  hard  as  a  youngster  to  make  old  bones.  It's 
a  long  journey  from  the  shop  in  the  Strand  to  the  woolsack 
you  see,  and  he  took  silk  at  two-and-thirty  I  believe.  Oh 
yes  !  early  death,  or  premature  decay,  is  the  price  most  out- 
siders pay  for  a  great  professional  success.  Isn't  that  so,  Mr. 
Ormiston  ?  " 

But  at  this  juncture  the  conversation  suffered  interruption 
by  the  throwing  open  of  the  door  and  entrance  of  Madame  de 
Vallorbes. 

"  Pray  let  no  one  move,"  she  said,  rather  as  issuing  an  order 
than  preferring  a  request — for  her  father.  Lord  Fallowfeild,  all 
the  gentlemen,  had  risen  on  her  appearance — save  Richard. — 
Richard,  his  blue  eyes  ablaze,  the  corners  of  his  mouth 
a-tremble,  his  heart  going  forth  tumultuously  to  meet  her,  yet 
he  alone  ©f  all  present  denied  the  little  obvious  act  of  outward 
courtesy  from  man  to  woman. 

"  Pinned  to  his  chair,  like  a  specimen  beetle  to  a  col- 
lector's card,"  John  Knott  said  grimly  to  himself.  "Poor 
dear  lad — and  with  that  face  on  him  too.  I  hoped  he 
might  have  been  spared  taking  fire  a  little  longer.  However, 
here's  the  conflagration.  No  question  about  that.  Now  let's 
have  a  look  at  the  lady." 

And  the  lady,  it  must  be  conceded,  manifested  herself  under 
a  new  and  somewhat  agitating  aspect,  as  she  swept  up  the  room 
and  into  the  vacant  place  at  Richard's  right  hand  with  a  rush 
of  silken  skirts.  She  produced  a  singular  effect  at  once  of 
energy  and  self-concentration — her  lips  thin  and  unsmiling,  an 
ominous  vertical  furrow  between  the  spring  of  her  arched  eye- 
brows, her  eyes  narrow,  unresponsive,  severe  with  thought 
under  their  delicate  lids. 


248  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

"  I  am  sorry  to  be  late,  but  it  was  unavoidable.  I  was 
kept  by  some  letters  forwarded  from  Newlands/'  she  said, 
without  giving  herself  the  trouble  of  looking  at  Richard  as  she 
spoke. 

"What  does  it  matter?  Luncheon's  admittedly  a  movable 
feast,  isn't  it  ?  " 

Madame  de  Vallorbes  made  no  response.  A  noticeable 
hush  had  descended  upon  the  whole  company,  while  the  men- 
servants  moved  to  and  fro  serving  the  newcomer.  Even 
Lady  Louisa  Barking  ceased  to  hold  high  discourse,  political  or 
other,  and  looked  disapprovingly  across  the  table.  An  hour 
earlier  she  had  resented  the  younger  woman's  merry  wit,  now 
she  resented  her  sublime  indifference.  Both  then  and  now 
she  found  her  perfect  finish  of  appearance  unpardonable. 
Lord  Fallowfeild's  disjointed  conversation  also  suffered  check. 
He  fidgeted,  vaguely  conscious  that  the  atmosphere  had  be- 
come somewhat  electric. — "  Monstrously  pretty  woman — 
effective  woman — very  effective — rather  dangerous  though. 
Changeable  too.  Made  me  laugh  a  little  too  much  before 
luncheon.  Louisa  didn't  like  it.  Very  correct  views,  my 
daughter  Louisa.  Now  seems  in  a  very  odd  temper.  Quite 
the  grand  air,  but  reminds  me  of  somebody  I've  seen  on  the 
Stage  somehow.  Suppose  all  that  comes  of  living  so  much  in 
France,"  he  said  to  himself.  But  for  the  life  of  him  he  could 
not  think  of  anything  to  say  aloud,  though  he  felt  it  would  be 
eminently  tactful  to  throw  in  a  casual  remark  at  this  juncture. 
Little  Lady  Constance  was  disquieted  likewise.  For  she,  girl- 
like, had  fallen  dumbly  and  adoringly  in  love  with  this  beauti- 
ful stranger  but  a  few  years  her  senior.  And  now  the  stranger 
appeared  as  an  embodiment  of  unknown  emotions  and  ener- 
gies altogether  beyond  the  scope  of  her  small  imagination. 
Her  innocent  stare  lost  its  ruminant  quality,  became  alarmed, 
tearful  even,  while  she  instinctively  edged  her  chair  closer  to 
her  father's.  There  was  a  great  bond  of  sympathy  between  the 
simple-hearted  gentleman  and  his  youngest  child.  Mr. 
Quayle  looked  on  with  lifted  eyebrows  and  his  air  of  amused 
forbearance.  And  Dr.  Knott  looked  on  also,  but  that  which 
he  saw  pleased  him  but  moderately.  The  grace  of  every 
movement,  the  distinction  of  face  and  figure,  the  charm  of  that 
finely-poised,  honey-coloured  head  showing  up  against  the 
background    of  gray-blue    tapestried    wall,  were  enough,  he 


LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERCI  24^ 

owned — having  a  very  pretty  taste  in  women  as  well  as  irr 
horses — to  drive  many  a  man  crazy. — "  But  if  the  mother's  a 
baggage,  the  daughter's  a  vixen,"  he  said  to  himself.  "  And, 
upon  my  soul  if  I  had  to  choose  between  'em — which  God 
Almighty  forbid — I'd  take  my  chance  with  the  baggage."  As 
climax  Lady  Calmady's  expression  was  severe.  She  sat  very 
upright,  and  made  no  effort  at  conversation.  Her  nerves  were 
a  little  on  edge.  There  had  been  awkward  moments  during 
this  meal,  and  now  her  niece's  entrance  struck  her  as  unfor- 
tunately accentuated,  while  there  was  that  in  Richard's  aspect 
which  startled  the  quick  fears  and  jealousies  of  her  motherhood. 

And  to  Richard  himself,  it  must  be  owned,  this  meeting  so 
hotly  desired,  and  against  the  dangers  of  which  he  had  so  wisely 
guarded,  came  in  fashion  altogether  different  to  that  which  he 
had  pictured.  Helen's  manner  was  cold  to  a  point  far  from 
flattering  to  his  self-esteem.  The  subtle  intimacies  of  the 
scene  in  the  Long  Gallery  became  as  though  they  had  never 
been.  Dickie  thinking  over  his  restless  night,  his  fierce  efforts 
at  self-conquest,  those  long  hours  in  the  saddle  designed  for 
the  reduction  of  a  perfervid  Imagination,  wrote  himself  down 
an  ass  indeed.  And  yet — yet — the  charm  of  Helen's  presence 
was  great.  And  surely  she  wasn't  quite  herself  just  now^ 
there  was  something  wrong  with  her?  Anybody  could  see 
that.  Everybody  did  see  it  in  fact,  he  feared,  and  commented 
upon  it  in  no  charitable  spirit.  Hostility  towards  her  declared 
itself  on  every  side.  He  detected  that — or  imagined  he  did  so 
— in  Lady  Louisa's  expression,  in  Ludovic  Quayle's  extra- 
superfine  smile,  in  the  doctor's  close  and  rather  cynical  attitude 
of  observation,  and,  last  but  not  least,  in  the  reserve  of  his 
mother's  bearing  and  manner.  And  this  hostility,  real  or 
imagined,  begot  in  Richard  a  new  sensation — one  of  tender- 
ness, wholly  unselfish  and  protective,  while  the  fighting  blood 
stirred  in  him.     He  grew  slightly  reckless. 

"  What  has  happened  ?  We  appear  to  have  fallen  most  un« 
accountably  silent,"  he  said,  looking  round  the  table,  with  an 
air  of  gallant  challenge  pretty  to  see. 

"  So  we  have,  though,"  exclaimed  Lord  Fallowfelld,  half  In 
relief,  half  in  apology.  "  Very  true — was  just  thinking  the 
same  thing  myself." 

While  Mr.  Quayle,  leaning  forward,  inquired  with  much 
sweetness: — ^^To  whom  shall  T  t^lk  ?      Madame  de  VaJlorbes 


250  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

IS  far  more  profitably  engaged  in  discussing  her  luncheon, 
than  she  could  be  in  discussing  any  conceivable  topic  of  con- 
versation with  such  as  I.  And  Dr.  Knott  is  so  evidently  diag- 
nosing an  interesting  case  that  I  have  not  the  effrontery  to  in- 
terrupt him." 

Disregarding  these  comments  Richard  turned  to  his  neigh- 
bour on  the  left. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  Lady  Louisa,"  he  said,  "but  before  this 
singular  dumbness  overtook  us  all,  you  vi^ere  saying  ?  " — 

The  lady  addressed,  electing  to  accept  this  as  a  tribute  to 
the  knowledge,  and  the  weight,  and  distinction,  of  her  dis- 
course, thawed,  became  condescending  and  gracious  again. 

"  I  believe  we  w^ere  discussing  the  prospects  of  the  party," 
she*  replied.  "  I  was  saying  that,  you  know,  of  course  there 
must  be  a  large  Liberal  majority." 

"  Yes,  of  course." 

"  You  consider  that  assured  ?  "  Julius  put  in  civilly. 

"  It  is  not  a  matter  of  personal  opinion,  I  am  thankful  to 
say — because  of  course  every  one  must  feel  it  is  just  everything 
for  the  country.  There  is  no  doubt  at  all  about  the  majority 
among  those  who  really  know — Mr.  Barking,  for  instance. 
Nobody  can  be  in  a  better  position  to  judge  than  he  is.  And 
then  I  was  speaking  the  other  night  to  Augustus  Tremiloe  at 
Lord  Combmartin's — not  William,  you  know,  but  Augustus 
Tremiloe,  the  man  in  the  Treasury,  and  he " 

"  Uncommonly  fine  chrysanthemums  those,"  Lord  Fallow- 
feild  had  broken  forth  cheerfully,  finding  sufficient,  if  tardy, 
inspiration  in  the  table  decorations.  "  Remarkably  perfect 
blossoms  and  charming  colour.  Nothing  nearly  so  good  at 
Whitney  this  autumn.  Excellent  fellow  my  head  gardener,  but 
rather  past  his  work — no  enterprise,  can't  make  him  go  in  for 
new  ideas." 

Mr.  Ormiston,  leaning  across  Dr.  Knott,  addressed  himself 
to  Ludovic,  while  casting  occasional  and  rather  anxious  glances 
upon  his  daughter.  Thus  did  voices  rise,  mingle,  and  the  talk 
get  fairly  upon  its  legs  again.  Then  Richard  permitted  him- 
self to  say  quietly  — 

*'  You  had  no  bad  news,  I  hope,  in  those  letters,  Helen  ?  " 

"  Why  should  you  suppose  I  have  had  bad  news  ? "  she 
demanded,  her  teeth  meeting  viciously  in  the  morsel  of  kiss- 
ing-crust  she  held  in  her  rosy-tipped  fingers. 


LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERCI  25 e 

It  was  as  pretty  as  a  game  to  see  her  eat,  Dickie  laughed 
a  little,  charmed  even  with  her  naughtiness^  embarrassed  too, 
by  the  directness  of  her  question. 

"  Oh  !  I  don't  exactly  know  why — I  thought  perhaps  you 
seemed " 

"You  do  know  quite  exactly  why,"  the  young  lady  as- 
serted, looking  full  at  him.  ^^  You  saw  that  I  was  in  a  detest- 
able, a  diabolic  temper." 

"  Well,  perhaps  I  did  think  I  saw  something  of  the  sort," 
Richard  answered  audaciously,  yet  very  gently. 

Helen  continued  to  look  at  him,  and  as  she  did  so  her  cheek 
rounded,  her  mouth  grew  soft,  the  vertical  line  faded  out  from 
her  forehead. — "You  are  very  assuaging.  Cousin  Richard," 
she  said,  and  she  too  laughed  softly. 

"  Understands  the  vineries  very  well  though,"  Lord  Fallow* 
feild  was  saying ;  ^'  and  doesn't  grow  bad  peaches,  not  at  alh 
bad  peaches,  but  is  stupid  about  flowers.  He  ought  to  retire.. 
Never  shall  have  really  satisfactory  gardens  till  he  does  retire- 
And  yet  I  haven't  the  heart  to  tell  him  to  go.  Good  fellow,., 
you  know,  good,  honest,  hard-working  fellow,  and  had  a  lot  of 
trouble.  Wife  ailing  for  years,  always  ailing,  and  youngest 
child  got  hip  disease — nasty  thing  hip  disease,  very  nasty — 
quite  a  cripple,  poor  little  creature,  I  am  afraid  a  hopeless 
cripple.  Terrible  anxiety  and  burden  for  parents  in  that  rank: 
of  life,  you  know." 

"  It  can  hardly  be  otherwise  in  any  rank  of  life,"  Lady 
Calmady  said  slowly,  bitterly.  An  immense  weariness  was 
upon  her — weariness  of  the  actual  and  present,  weariness  of 
the  possible  and  the  future.  Her  courage  ebbed.  She  longed 
to  go  away,  to  be  alone  for  a  while,  to  shut  eyes  and  ears,  to 
deaden  alike  perception  and  memory,  to  have  it  all  cease. 
Then  it  was  as  though  those  two  beautiful,  and  now  laughing, 
faces  of  man  and  woman  in  the  glory  of  their  youth,  seen  over 
the  perspective  of  fair,  white  damask,  glittering  glass  and 
silver,  rich  dishes,  graceful  profusion  of  flowers  and  fruit,  at 
the  far  end  of  the  avenue  of  guests,  mocked  at  her.  Did 
they  not  mock  at  the  essential  conditions  of  their  own  lives  too? 
Katherine  feared,  consciously  or  unconsciously  they  did  that* 
Her  weariness  dragged  upon  her  with  almost  despairing  weights 

"  Do  you  get  your  papers  the  same  day  here.  Sir  Richard  ?  '*' 
Lady  Louisa  asked  imperatively. 


252  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

"Yes,  they  come  with  the  second  post  letters,  about  five 
o'clock,"  Julius  March  answered. 

But  Lady  Louisa  Barking  intended  to  be  attended  to  by  her 
host. 

"Sir  Richard/' she  paused,  "I  am  asking  whether  your 
papers  reach  you  the  same  day  ?  " 

And  Dickie  replied  he  knew  not  what,  for  he  had  just  reg- 
istered the  discovery  that  barriers  are  quite  useless  against  a 
certain  sort  of  intimacy.  Be  the  crowd  never  so  thick  about 
you,  in  a  sense  at  least,  you  are  always  alone,  exquisitely,  del- 
icately, alone  with  the  person  you  love. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

31ICHARD    PUTS    HIS    HAND    TO    A    PLOUGH    FROM    WHICH 
THERE    IS    NO    TURNING    BACK 

T^EAREST  mother,  you  look  most  deplorably  tired." 
"^^^  Richard  sat  before  the  large  study  table,  piled  up 

with  letters,  papers,  county  histories,  racing  calendars,  in  the 
Gun-Room,  amid  a  haze  of  cigar  smoke.  "  I  don't  wonder," 
he  went  on,  "  we've  had  a  regular  field-day,  haven't  we  ?  And 
I'm  afraid  Lord  Fallowfeild  bored  you  atrociously  at  luncheon. 
He  does  talk  most  admired  foolishness  half  his  time,  poor  old 
boy.  All  the  same  Ludovic  shouldn't  show  him  up  as  he 
does.  It's  not  good  form.  I'm  afraid  Ludovic's  getting 
rather  spoilt  by  London.  He's  growing  altogether  too  finick- 
ing  and  elaborate.  It's  a  pity.  Lady  Louisa  Barking  is  a  rather 
exterminating  person.  Her  conversation  is  magnificently 
deficient  in  humour.  It  is  to  be  hoped  Barking  is  not 
troubled  by  lively  perceptions  or  he  must  suffer  at  times. 
Lady  Constance  is  a  pretty  little  girl,  don't  you  think  so  ? 
Not  oppressed  with  brains,  I  dare  say,  but  a  good  little  sort." 

"You  liked  her?  "   Katherine  said.     She  stood  beside  him, 
that  mortal  weariness  upon  her  yet. 

"Oh  yes  ! — well  enough — liked  her  in  passing,  as  one  likes 
the  wild  roses  in  the  hedge.  But  you  look  regularly  played 
^ut,  mother,  and  I  don't  \ike  that  in  the  least." 


LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERCI 


253 


Richard  twisted  the  revolvlng-chair  half  round,  and  held 
out  his  arms  in  invitation.  As  his  mother  leaned  over  him^ 
he  stretched  upward  and  clasped  his  hands  lightly  about  her 
neck. — "  Poor  dear,"  he  said  coaxingly,  "  worn  to  fiddle- 
strings  with  all  this  wild  dissipation  !  I  declare  it's  quite 
pathetic.'' — He  let  her  go,  shrugging  his  shoulders  with  a  sigh 
and  a  half  laugh.  "  Well,  the  dissipation  will  soon  enough 
be  over  now,  and  we  shall  resume  the  even  tenor  of  our  way^ 
I  suppose.     You'll  be  glad  of  that,  mother  ?  " 

The  caress  had  been  grateful  to  Katherine,  the  cool  cheek: 
dear  to  her  lips,  the  clasp  of  the  strong  arms  reassuring.  Yet,, 
in  her  present  state  of  depression,  she  was  inclined  to  distrust, 
even  that  which  consoled,  and  there  seemed  a  lack  in  the 
fervour  of  this  embrace.  Was  it  not  just  a  trifle  perfunctory^, 
as  of  one  who  pays  toll,  rather  than  of  one  who  claims  a 
privilege  ? 

"  You'll  be  glad  too,  my  dearest,  I  trust  ?  "  she  said,  crav- 
ing further  encouragement. 

Richard  twisted  the  chair  back  Into  place  again,  leaned  for- 
ward to  note  the  hour  of  the  clock  set  in  the  centre  of  the 
gold  and  enamel  inkstand. 

"  Oh  !  I'm  not  prophetic.  I  don't  pretend  to  go  before  the 
event  and  register  my  sensations  until  both  they  and  I  have 
fairly  arrived.  It's  awfully  bad  economy  to  get  ahead  of 
yourself  and  live  in  the  day  after  to-morrow.  To-day's 
enough — more  than  enough  for  you,  I'm  afraid,  when  you've 
had  a  large  contingent  of  the  Whitney  people  to  luncheon,. 
Do  go  and  rest,  mother.  Uncle  William  is  disposed  of.  I've 
started  him  out  for  a  tramp  with  Julius,  so  you  need  not  have 
him  on  your  mind." 

But  neither  in  Richard's  words  nor  In  his  manner  did  Lady 
Calmady  find  the  fulness  of  assurance  she  craved. 

'^Thanks  dearest,"  she  said.  "That  is  very  thoughtful  of 
you.     I  will  see  Helen  and  find  out " 

"  Oh  !  don't  trouble  about  her  either,"  Richard  put  in^ 
Again  he  studied  the  jewel-rimmed  dial  of  the  little  clock.  "I 
found  she  wanted  to  go  to  Newlands  to  bid  Mrs.  Cathcart 
good-bye.  It  seems  Miss  St.  Quentin  is  back  there  for  a  day 
or  two.  So  I  promised  to  drive  her  over  as  soon  as  we  were, 
quit  of  the  Fallowfeild  party." 

"  It  is  late  for  so  long  a  drive." 


cc 


254  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

Richard  looked  up  quickly  and  his  face  wore  that  expression 
of  challenge  once  again. 

"  I  know  it  is — and  so  I  am  afraid  we  ought  to  start  at 
once.  I  expect  the  carriage  round  immediately."  Then  re- 
penting:— "  You'li  fake  care  of  yourself  won't  you,  mother, 
and  rest  ?  '* 

Oh  yes  !     I   will   take  care  of  myself,"  Katherine  said. 

Indeed,  I  appear  to  be  the  only  person  I  have  left  to  take 
care  of,  thanks  to  your  forethought.  All  good  go  with  you, 
Dick." 

It  followed — perhaps  unreasonably  enough — that  Richard, 
rsome  five  minutes  later,  drove  round  the  angle  of  the  house 
and  drew  the  mail-phaeton  up  at  the  foot  of  the  gray,  griffin- 
guarded  flight  of  steps — whereon  Madame  de  Vallorbes, 
wrapped  in  furs,  the  cavalier  hat  and  its  trailing  plumes  shad- 
owing the  upper  part  of  her  face  and  her  bright  hair,  awaited 
his  coming — in  a  rather  defiant  humour.  His  cousin  was 
troubled,  worried,  and  she  met  with  scant  sympathy.  This 
aroused  all  his  chivalry.  Whatever  she  wished  for,  that  he 
could  give  her,  she  should  very  certainly  have.  Of  after  con- 
sequences to  himself  he  was  contemptuous.  The  course  of 
action  which  had  shown  as  wisdom  a  couple  of  hours  ago, 
showed  now  as  selfishness  and  pusillanimity.  If  she  wanted 
him,  he  was  there  joyfully  to  do  her  bidding,  at  whatever  cost 
to  himself  in  subsequent  unrest  of  mind  seemed  but  a  small 
thing.  If  heartache  and  insidious  provocations  of  the  flesh 
came  later,  let  them  come.  He  was  strong  enough  to  bear 
the  one  and  crush  out  the  other,  he  hoped.  It  would  give 
him  something  to  do — he  told  himself,  a  little  bitterly — and  he 
had  been  idle  of  late  ! 

And  so  it  came  about  that  Richard  Calmady  held  out  his 
hand,  to  help  his  cousin  into  her  place  at  his  side,  with  more 
of  meaning  and  welcome  in  the  gesture  than  he  was  quite 
aware.  He  forgot  the  humiliation  of  the  broad  strap 
about  his  waist,  of  the  high,  ingeniously  contrived  driving- 
iron  against  which  his  feet  rested,  steadying  him  upon  the 
sharply  sloping  seat.  These  were  details,  objectionable  ones 
it  was  true,  but,  to-day,  of  very  secondary  importance.  In 
the  main  he  was  master  of  the  situation.  For  once  it  was  his 
to  render,  rather  than  receive,  assistance.  Helen  was  under  his 
care,  in   a  measure  dependent   on   him,  and  this  gratified  his 


LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERCI  255 

young,  masculine  pride,  doomed  too  often  to  suffer  sharp 
mortification.  A  fierce  pleasure  possessed  him.  It  was  fine 
to  bear  her  thus  away,  behind  the  fast  trotting  horses,  through 
the  pensive,  autumn  brightness.  Boyish  self-consciousness 
and  self-distrust  died  down  in  Richard,  and  the  man's  self- 
reliance,  instinct  of  possession  and  of  authority,  grew  in  him.. 
His  tone  was  that  of  command,  for  all  its  solicitude,  as  he 
said : — 

"  Look  here,  are  you  sure  you've  got  enough  on  ?  Don^t 
go  and  catch  cold,  under  the  impression  that  there's  any 
meaning  in  this  sunshine.  It  is  sure  to  be  chilly  driving 
home,  and  it's  easy  to  take  more  wTaps." 

Helen  shook  her  head,  unsmiling,  serious. 

"  I  could  face  polar  snows." 

Richard  let  the  horses  spring  forward,  while  little  pebble? 
rattled  against  the  body  of  the  phaeton,  and  the  groom,  run- 
ning a  few  steps,  swung  himself  up  on  to  the  back  seat,  im- 
mediately becoming  immovable  as  a  wooden  image,  with, 
rigidly  folded  arms. 

"  Oh  !  the  cold  won't  quite  amount  to  that,"  Richard  said. 
"  But  I  observe  women  rarely  reckon  with  the  probabilities  of 
the  return  journey." 

"  The  return  journey  is  invariably  too  hot,  or  too  cold,  too- 
soon,  or  too  late — for  a  woman.  So  it  is  better  not  to  re- 
member its  existence  until  you  are  compelled  to  do  so.  For 
myself,  I  confess  to  the  strongest  prejudice  against  the  return 
journey." 

Madame  de  Vallorbes'  speech  was  calm  and  measured,  yet 
there  was  a  conviction  in  it  suggestive  of  considerable  emo- 
tion. She  sat  well  back  in  the  carriage,  her  head  turned 
slightly  to  the  left,  so  that  Richard,  looking  down  at  her,  saw 
^.ittle  but  the  pure  firm  line  of  her  jaw,  the  contour  of  her 
cheek,  and  her  ear — small,  lovely,  the  soft  hair  curling  away 
from  above  and  behind  it  in  the  most  enticing  fashion. 
Physical  perfection,  of  necessity,  provoked  in  him  a  peculiar 
envy  and  delight.  And  nature  appeared  to  have  taken  in- 
genious pleasure,  not  only  in  conferring  an  unusual  degree  of 
beauty  upon  his  companion,  but  in  finishing  each  detail  of  her 
person  with  unstinted  grace.  For  a  while  the  young  man  lost 
himself  in  contemplation  of  that  charming  car  and  partially 
averted  face.     Then  resolutely  he  bestowed  his  attention  upon 


:256  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

the  horses  again,  finding  such  contemplation  slightly  enerva- 
ting to  his  moral  sense. 

"Yes,  return  journeys  are  generally  rather  a  nuisance,  I 
suppose,"  he  said,  "  though  my  experience  of  that  particular 
form  of  nuisance  is  limited.  I  have  not  been  outward-bound 
often  enough  to  know  much  of  the  regret  of  being  home- 
ward-bound. And  yet,  I  own,  I  should  not  much  mind  driv- 
ing on  and  on  everlastingly  on  a  dreamy  afternoon  like  this, 
and — and  as  I  find  myself  just  now — driving  on  and  seeking 
some  El  Dorado — of  the  spirit,  I  mean,  not  of  the  pocket — 
seeking  the  Fortunate  Isles  that  lie  beyond  the  sunset.  For  it 
would  be  not  a  little  fascinating  to  give  one's  accustomed  self, 
and  all  that  goes  to  make  up  one's  accepted  identity,  the  slip 
— to  drive  clean  out  of  one's  old  circumstances  and  find  new 
heavens,  a  new  earth,  and  a  new  personality  elsewhere. 
What  do  you  say,  Helen,  shall  we  try  it  ?  " 

But  Helen  sat  immobile,  her  face  averted,  listening  intently, 
revolving  many  things  in  her  mind,  meditating  how  and  when 
most  advantageously  to  speak. 

"  It  would  be  such  .an  amiable  and  graceful  experiment  to 
try  on  my  own  people,  too,  wouldn't  it  ?  "  the  young  man 
continued,  VvMth  a  sudden  change  of  tone.  "And  I  am  so 
eminently  fitted  to  lose  myself  in  a  crowd  without  fear  of 
recognition,  just  the  person  for  a  case  of  mistaken  identity  !  " 

^^  Do  not  say  such  things,  Richard,  please.  They  distress 
me,"  Madame  de  Vallorbes  put  in  quickly.  "  And,  believe 
me,  I  have  no  quarrel  with  the  return  journey  in  this  case. 
At  Brockhurst  I  could  fancy  myself  to  have  found  the  For- 
tunate Isles  of  which  you  spoke  just  now.  I  have  been  very 
happy  there — too  happy,  perhaps,  and  therefore,  to-day,  the 
whip  has  come  down  across  my  back,  just  to  remind  me." 

"Ah  !  now  you  say  the  painful  things,"  Dick  interrupted. 
*'  Pray  don't — I — I  don't  like  them." 

Madame  de  Vallorbes  turned  her  head  and  looked  at  him 
^with  the  strangest  expression. 

"  My  metaphor  was  not  out  of  place.  Do  you  imagine 
horses  are  the  only  animals  a  man  drives,  mon  beau  cousin  ? 
Some  men  drive  the  woman  who  belongs  to  them,  and  that 
not  with  the  lightest  bit,  I  promise  you.  Nor  do  they  for- 
;get  to  tie  blood-knots  in  the  whip-lash  when  it  suits  them  to 
ado  so." 


LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERCI  257 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  he  asked  abruptly. 

"  Merely  that  the  letters,  which  so  stupidly  endangered  my 
self-control  at  luncheon,  contained  examples  of  that  kind  of 
driving." 

"  How — how  damnable,"  the  young  man  said  between  his 
teeth.       _-._-,,^^ 

The  redarm  purple  trunks  of  the  great  fir  trees  reeled 
away  to  right  and  left  as  the  carriage  swept  forward  down  the 
long  avenue.  To  Richard's  seeing  they  reeled  away  in  dis- 
gust, even  as  did  his  thought  from  the  images  which  his  com- 
panion's words  suggested.  While,  to  her  seeing,  they  reeled^ 
smitten  by  the  eternal  laughter,  the  echoes  of  which  it  stimu- 
lated her  to  hear. — "  The  drama  develops,"  she  said  to  her- 
self, half  triumphant,  half  abashed.  "  And  yet  I  am  telling 
the  truth,  it  is  all  so — I  hardly  even  doctor  it." — For  she  had 
been  angered,  genuinely  and  miserably  angered,  and  had  found 
that  odious  to  the  point  of  letting  feeling  override  diplomacy. 
There  was  subtle  pleasure  in  now  turning  her  very  lapse  of 
self-control  to  her  own  advantage.  And  then,  this  young 
man's  heart  was  the  finest,  purest-toned  instrument  upon 
which  she  had  ever  had  the  chance  to  play  as  yet.  She  was 
ravished  by  the  quality  and  range  of  the  music  it  gave  forth. 
Madame  de  Vallorbes  pressed  her  hands  together  within  the 
warm  comfort  of  her  sable  muff,  averted  her  face  again,  lest 
it  should  betray  the  eager  excitement  that  gained  on  her,  and 
continued  : — 

"  Yes,  whip  and  rein  and  bit  are  hardly  pretty  in  that  con- 
nection, are  they  ?  If  you  would  willingly  give  your  identity 
the  slip  at  times,  dear  cousin,  I  have  considerably  deeper  cause 
to  wish  to  part  company  with  mine  !  You,  in  any  case,  are 
morally  and  materially  free.  A  whole  class  of  particularly 
irritating  and  base  cares  can  never  approach  you.  And  it  was 
in  connection  with  just  such  cares  that  I  spoke  of  the  hate- 
fulness  of  return  journeys." 

Helen  paused,  as  one  making  an  effort  to  maintain  her 
equanimity. 

"  My  letters  recall  me  to  Paris,"  she  said,  "  where  detest- 
able scenes  and  most  ignoble  anxieties  await  me." 

"  How  soon  must  you  go  ?  " 

"  That  is  what  I  asked  myself,"  she  said,  in  the  same 
quiet,  even  voice.     "  I  have  not  yet  arrived  at  a  decision,  and 


258  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

so  I  asked  you  to  bring  me  out  Dickie,  this  afternoon.*' — She 
looked  up  at  him,  smiling,  lovely  and  with  a  certain  wistful 
dignity,  wholly  coercive.  "  Can  you  understand  that  the 
orderly  serenity  of  your  splendid  house  became  a  little  op- 
pressive ?  It  offered  too  glaring  a  contrast  to  my  own  state 
of  mind  and  outlook.  I  fancied  my  brain  would  be  clearer, 
my  conclusions  more  just,  here  out  of  doors,  face  to  face  with 
this  half-savage  nature." 

"  Ah,  I  know  all  that,"  Richard  said.  Had  not  the  blank- 
ness  of  the  fog  brought  him  help  this  very  morning  ? — "  I 
know  it,  but  I  wish  you  did  not  know  it  too." 

"  I  know  many  things  better  not  known,"  Helen  replied. 
Her  conscience  pricked  her.  She  thanked  her  stars  confession 
had  ceased  with  enlargement  from  the  convent-school,  and 
was  a  thing  of  the  past.  ^' You  see,  I  want  to  decide  just 
how  long  I  dare  stay — if  you  will  keep  me  ?  " 

"  We  will  keep  you,"  Richard  said. 

''You  are  very  charming  to  me,  Dick,"  she  exclaimed  im- 
pulsively, sincerely,  again  slightly  abashed.  "  How  long  can 
I  stay,  I  wonder,  without  making  matters  worse  in  the 
end,  both  for  my  father  and  for  myself?  I  am  young,  after 
all,  and  I  suppose  I  am  tough.  The  cuticle  of  the  soul — if 
souls  can  have  a  cuticle — like  that  of  the  body,  thickens 
under  repeated  blows.  But  my  father  is  no  longer  young. 
He  is  terribly  sensitive  where  I  am  concerned.  And  he  is 
inevitably  drawn  into  the  v/hirlpool  of  my  wretched  affair 
sooner  or  later.  On  his  account  I  should  be  glad  to  defer  the 
return  journey  as  long " 

"  But — but — I  don't  understand,"  Richard  broke  out,  pity 
and  deep  concern  for  her,  a  blind  fury  against  a  person,  or 
persons,  unknown,  getting  the  better  of  him.  "Who  on 
earth  has  the  power  to  plague  you  and  make  you  miserable,  or 
your  father  either  ?  " 

The  young  man's  face  vi^as  white,  his  eyes  full  of  pain,  full 
of  a  great  love,  burning  down  on  her.  As  once,  long  ago, 
Helen  de  Vallorbes  could  have  danced  and  clapped  her  hands 
in  naughty  glee.  For  her  hunting  had  prospered  above  her 
fondest  hopes.  She  had  much  ado  to  stifle  the  laughter  which 
bubbled  up  in  her  pretty  throat.  She  was  in  the  humour  to 
pelt  peacocks  royally,  had  such  pastime  been  possible.  As  it 
was,  she  closed  her  eyes  for  a  little  minute  and  waited,  biting 


LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERCI  259 

the  inside  of  her  lip.  At  last,  she  said  slowly,  almost 
solemnly  :  — 

"  Don't  you  know  that  for  certain  mistakes,  and  those  usu- 
ally the  most  generous,  there  is  no  redress  ?  " 

^'  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  he  demanded. 

"  Mean  ? — the  veriest  commonplace  in  my  own  case,"  she 
answered.  "  Merely  an  unhappy  marriage.  There  are  thou- 
sands such." 

They  had  left  the  shadow  of  the  fir  woods  now.  The  car- 
riage crossed  the  white-railed  culvert — bridging  the  little 
stream  that  takes  its  rise  amid  the  pink  and  emerald  mosses  of 
the  peat-bog,  and  meanders  down  the  valley — and  entered  the 
oak  plantation  just  inside  the  park  gate.  Russet  leaves  in 
rustling,  hurrying  companies,  fled  up  and  away  from  the 
rapidly  turning  wheels  and  quick  horse  hoofs.  The  sunshine 
was  wan  and  chill  as  the  smile  on  a  dead  face.  Lines  of  pale, 
lilac  cloud — shaped  like  those  flights  of  cranes  which  decorate 
the  oriental  cabinets  of  the  Long  Gallery — crossed  the  western 
sky  above  the  bare  balsam  poplars,  the  cluster  of  ancient  half- 
timbered  cottages  at  the  entrance  to  Sandyfield  church  lane, 
and  the  rise  of  the  gray-brown  fallow  beyond,  where  sheep 
moved,  bleating  plaintively,  within  a  wattled  fold. 

The  scene,  altogether  familiar  though  it  was,  impressed 
itself  on  Richard's  mind  just  now,  as  one  of  paralysing  mel- 
ancholy. God  help  us,  what  a  stricken,  famished  world  it  is ! 
Will  you  not  always  find  sorrow  and  misfortune  seated  at  the 
root  of  things  if,  disregarding  overlaying  prettiness  of  summer 
days,  of  green  leaf  and  gay  blossom,  you  dare  draw  near,  dig 
deep,  look  close  ?  And  can  nothing,  no  one,  escape  the 
blighting  touch  of  that  canker  stationed  at  the  very  foundations 
of  being  ?  Certainly  it  would  seem  not — Richard  reasoned — 
listening  to  the  words  of  the  radiant  woman  beside  him,  or- 
dained, in  right  of  her  talent  and  puissant  grace,  to  be  a  queen 
and  idol  of  men.  For  sadder  than  the  thin  sunshine,  bare 
trees  and  complaint  of  the  hungry  flock,  was  that  assured  dec- 
laration that  loveless  and  unlovely  marriages — of  which  her 
own  was  one — exist  by  the  thousand,  are,  indeed,  the  veriest 
commonplace  ! 

These  reflections  held  Richard,  since  he  had  been  thinker 
and  poet — in  his  degree — since  childhood ;  lover  onlv  during 
the  brief  space   of  these  last  ten  surprising  days.     Thus  the 


3t6o  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

general  application  claimed  his  attention  first.  But  hard  on 
the  heels  of  this  followed  the  personal  application.  For,  as  is 
the  way  of  all  true  lovers,  the  universality  of  the  law  under 
which  it  takes  its  rise  mitigates,  by  most  uncommonly  little^ 
either  the  joy  or  sorrow  of  the  particular  case.  Poignant  re- 
gret that  she  suffered,  strong  admiration  that  she  bore  suffering 
so  adherent  with  such  lightness  of  demeanour — then,  more 
dangerous  than  these,  a  sense  of  added  unlooked-for  nearness 
*to  her,  and  a  resultant  calling  not  merely  of  the  spirit  of  youth 
*in  hi<m  to  that  same  spirit  resident  in  her,  but  the  deeper,  more 
'<:ompeiling,  more  sonorous  call  from  the  knowledge  of  tragedy 
an  him  to  that  same  terrible  knowledge  now  first  made  evident 
in  her. — And  here  Richard's  heart — in  spite  of  pity,  in  spite 
of  tenderness  which  would  have  borne  a  hundred  miseries  to 
save  her  five  minutes'  discomfort — sang  Te  Deu?7i^  and  that 
lustily  enough  ]  For  by  this  revelation  of  the  infelicity  of  her 
state,  his  whole  relation  to,  and  duty  towards  her  changed  and 
took  on  a  greater  freedom.  To  pour  forth  worship  and  offers 
of  service  at  the  feet  of  a  happy  woman  is  at  once  an  imperti- 
nence to  her  and  a  shame  to  yourself.  But  to  pour  forth  such 
worship,  such  offers  of  service,  at  the  feet  of  an  unhappy 
woman — age-old  sophistry,  so  often  ruling  the  speech  and 
actions  of  men  to  their  fatal  undoing  ! — this  is  praiseworthy 
and  legitimate,  a  matter  not  of  privilege  merely,  but  of  obliga- 
tion to  whoso  would  claim  to  be  truly  chivalrous. 

The  perception  of  his  larger  liberty,  and  the  consequences 
following  thereon,  kept  Richard  silent  till  Sandyfield  rectory, 
the  squat-towered,  Georgian  church  and  the  black-headed, 
yew  trees  in  the  close-packed  churchyard  adjoining,  the  neigh- 
bouring farm  and  its  goodly  show  of  golden-gray  wheat-ricks 
wer'e  left  behind,  and  the  carriage  entered  on  the  flat,  furze- 
dotted  expanse  of  Sandyfield  common.  Flocks  of  geese,  aris- 
ing from  damp  repose  upon  the  ragged  autumn  turf,  hissed 
forth  futile  declarations  of  war.  A  gipsy  caravan  painted  in 
staring  colours,  and  hung  all  over  with  heath-brooms  and 
basket-chairs,  caused  the  horses  to  swerve.  Parties  of  home- 
:going  school-children  backed  on  to  the  loose  gravel  at  the 
'foadside,  bobbing  curtsies  or  pulling  forelocks,  staring  at  the 
^oung  man  and  his  companion,  curious  and  half  afraid.  For 
5n  the  youthful,  bucolic  mind  a  mystery  surrounded  Richard 
'Calmady  and   his  goings   and  comings,  causing  him  to  rank 


LA  BELLE  DAiME  SANS  MERCI  261 

with  crowned  heads,  ghosts,  the  Book  of  Daniel,  funerals, 
the  Northern  Lights,  and  kindred  matters  of  dread  fascination. 
So  wondering  eyes  pursued  him  down  the  road. 

And  wondering  eyes,  as  the  minutes  passed,  glanced  up  at 
him  from  beneath  the  sweeping  plumes  and  becoming  shadow 
of  the  cavalier's  hat.  For  his  prolonged  silence  rendered 
Madame  de  Vallorbes  anxious.  Had  she  spoken  unadvisedljp 
with  her  tongue  ?  Had  her  words  sounded  crude  and  of  ques- 
tionable delicacy  ?  Given  his  antecedents  and  upbringings 
Richard  was  bound  to  hold  the  marriage  tie  in  rather  supersti- 
tious reverence,  and  was  likely  to  entertain  slightly  superannu- 
ated views  regarding  the  obligation  of  reticence  in  the  discus- 
sion of  family  matters.  She  feared  she  had  reckoned  insuffi- 
ciently with  all  this  in  her  eagerness,  forgetting  subtle  diplo- 
macies. Her  approach  had  lacked  tact  2indi  finesse.  In  deal- 
ing with  an  adversary  of  coarser  fibre  her  attack  would  have 
succeeded  to  admiration.  But  this  man  was  refined  and  sensi- 
tive to  a  fault,  easily  disgusted,  narrowly  critical  in  questions, 
of  taste. 

Therefore  she  glanced  up  at  him  again,  trying  to  divine  his 
thought,  her  own  mind  in  a  tumult  of  opposing  purposes  and 
desires.  And  just  as  the  contemplation  of  her  beauty  had  so 
deeply  stirred  him  earlier  this  same  afternoon,  so  did  the  con- 
templation of  his  beauty  now  stir  her.  It  satisfied  her  artistic 
sense.  Save  that  the  nose  was  straighter  and  shorter,  the 
young  man  reminded  her  notably  of  a  certain  antique,  terra- 
cotta head  of  the  young  Alexander  which  she  had  once  seerj 
in  a  museum  at  Munich,  and  which  had  left  an  ineffaceable 
impression  upon  her  memory.  But,  the  face  of  the  young 
Alexander  beside  her  was  of  nobler  moral  quality  than  that 
other — undebauched  by  feasts  and  licentious  pleasures  as  yet, 
masculine  yet  temperate,  the  sanctuary  of  generous  ambitions 
— merciless  it  might  be,  she  fancied,  but  never  base,  never 
weak.  Thus  was  her  artistic  sense  satisfied,  morally  as  well  as 
physically.  Her  social  sense  was  satisfied  also.  For  the  young 
man's  high-breeding  could  not  be  called  in  question.  He  held 
himself  remarkably  well.  She  approved  the  cut  of  his  clothes 
moreover,  his  sure  and  easy  handling  of  the  spirited  horses. 

And  then  her  eyes,  following  down  the  lines  of  the  fur  rug^ 
received  renewed  assurance  of  the  fact  of  his  deformity — 
hidden  as  far  as  might  be,  with  decent  pride,  yet  there,  perma- 


262  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

ncnt  and  unalterable.  This  worked  upon  her  strongly.  For, 
to  her  peculiar  temperament,  the  indissoluble  union  in  one 
body  of  elements  so  noble  and  so  monstrous,  of  youthful 
vigour  and  abject  helplessness,  the  grotesque  in  short,  supplied 
the  last  v/ord  of  sensuous  and  dramatic  attraction.  As  last 
evening,  in  the  Long  Gallery,  so  now,  she  hugged  herself,  at 
once  frightened  and  fascinated,  wrought  upon  by  excitement 
as  in  the  presence  of  something  akin  to  the  supernatural,  and 
altogether  beyond  the  confines  of  ordinary  experience. 

And  to  think  that  she  had  come  so  near  holding  this  inimi- 
table creature  in  her  hand,  and  by  overhastc,  or  clumsiness  of 
statement  should  lose  it !  Madame  de  Vallorbes  was  wild 
with  irritation,  racked  her  brain  for  means  to  recover  her — as 
she  feared — forfeited  position.  It  would  be  maddening  did 
her  mighty  hunting  prove  but  a  barren  pastime  in  the  end. 
And  thereupon  the  little  scar  on  her  temple,  deftly  concealed 
under  the  soft,  bright  hair,  began  to  smart  and  throb.  Ah ! 
well,  the  hunting  should  not  prove  quite  barren  anyhow,  of 
that  she  was  determined,  for,  failing  her  late  gay  purpose,  that 
small  matter  of  long-deferred  revenge  still  remained  in  reserve. 
If  she  could  not  gratify  one  passion,  she  would  gratify  quite 
another.  For  in  this  fair  lady's  mind  it  was — perhaps  un- 
fortunately— but  one  step  from  the  Eden  bowers  of  love  to  the 
waste  places  of  vindictive  hate. — '^  Yet  I  would  rather  be 
good  to  him,  far  rather,"  she  said  to  herself,  with  a  movement 
of  quite  pathetic  sincerity. 

But  here,  just  at  the  entrance  to  the  village  street,  an  al- 
together unconscious  deus  ex  machlna — destined  at  once  to 
relieve  Helen  of  further  anxiety,  and  commit  poor  Dickie  to  a 
course  of  action  affecting  the  whole  of  his  subsequent  career — 
presented  itself  in  the  shape  of  a  white-tented  miller's  waggon, 
which,  with  somnolent  jingle  of  harness  bells  and  most  ad- 
mired deliberation,  moved  down  the  centre  of  the  road.  A 
yellow-washed  garden-wall  on  one  side,  the  brook  on  the 
other,  there  was  not  room  for  the  phaeton  to  pass. 

"  Whistle,"  Rjchard  commanded  over  his  shoulder.  And 
the  wooden  image  thereby  galvanised  into  immediate  activity 
whistled  shrilly,  but  without  result  as  far  as  the  waggon  was 
concerned. 

"  The  fellow's  asleep.  Go  and  tell  him  to  pull  out  of  the 
way." 


LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERCI  263 

Then,  while  the  groom  ran  neatly  forward  in  twinkling, 
white  breeches  and  flesh-coloured  tops,  Richard,  bending  to- 
wards her,  as  far  as  that  controling  strap  about  his  waist  per- 
mitted, shifted  the  reins  into  his  right  hand  and  laid  his  left 
upon  Madame  de  Vallorbes'  sable  mufF. 

"  Look  here,  Helen,"  he  said,  rather  hoarsely,  "  I  am  inde- 
scribably shocked  at  what  you  have  just  told  me.  I  supposed 
it  was  all  so  different  with  you.  I'd  no  suspicion  of  this. 
And — and — if  I  may  say  so,  you've  taught  me  a  lesson  which 
has  gone  home — steady  there — steady,  good  lass  " — for  the 
horses  danced  and  snorted — "  I  don't  think  I  shall  ever  grum- 
ble much  in  future  about  troubles  of  my  own,  having  seen 
how  splendidly  you  bear  yours.  Only  I  can't  agree  with  you 
no  remedy  is  possible  for  generous  mistakes.  The  world  isn't 
quite  so  badly  made  as  all  that.  There  is  a  remedy  for  every 
mistake  except — a  few  physical  ones,  which  we  euphuistically 
describe  as  visitations  of  God. — Steady,  steady  there — wait  a 
bit. — And  I — I  tell  you  I  can't  sit  down  under  this  unhappi- 
ness  of  yours  and  just  put  up  with  it.  Don't  think  me  a 
meddling  fool,  please.  Something's  got  to  be  done.  I  know 
I  probably  appear  to  you  the  last  person  in  the  world  to  be  of 
use.  And  yet  I'm  not  sure  about  that.  I  have  time — too 
much  of  it — and  I'm  not  quite  an  ass.  And  you — you  must 
know,  I  think,  there's  nothing  in  heaven  or  earth  I  would  not 
do  for  you  that  I  could " 

The  miller  hauled  his  slow-moving  team  aside,  with  beery- 
thick  objurgations  and  apologies.  The  groom  swung  himself 
up  at  the  back  of  the  carriage  again.  The  impatient  horses, 
getting  their  heads,  swung  away  down  Sandyfield  Street — 
scattering  a  litter  of  merry,  little,  black  pigs  and  remonstrant 
fowls  to  right  and  left — past  modest  village  shop,  and  yellow- 
washed  tavern,  and  red,  lichen-stained  cottage,  beneath  the 
row  of  tall  Lombardy  poplars  that  raised  their  brown-gray 
spires  to  the  blue-gray  of  the  autumn  sky.  Richard's  left 
hand  held  the  reins  again. 

"  Half  confidences  are  no  good,"  he  said.  "  So,  as  you've 
trusted  me  thus  far,  Helen,  don't  you  think  you  will  trust 
somewhat  further  ?     Be  explicit.     Tell  me  the  rest  ?  " 

And  hearing  him,  seeing  him  just  then,  Madame  de  Val- 
lorbes' heart  melted  within  her,  and,  to  her  own  prodigious 
surprise,  she  had  much  ado  not  to  weep. 


a64  SIR  RICH^RD  CALM  AD  Y 


CHAPTER  IX 

WHICH    TOUCHES  INCIDENTALLY  ON  MATTERS  OF  FINANCE 

A  S  Richard  had  predicted  the  fog  reappeared  towards  sun  - 
set.  At  first,  as  a  frail  mist,  through  which  the  land- 
scape looked  colourless  and  blurred.  Later  it  rose,  growing 
in  density,  until  all  objects  beyond  a  radius  of  some  twenty 
paces  were  engulfed  in  its  nothingness  and  lost.  Later  still — 
while  Helen  de  Vallorbes  paid  her  visit  at  Newlands — it  grew 
<lenser  yet,  heavy,  torpid,  close  yet  cold,  penetrated  by  earthy 
odours  as  the  atmosphere  of  a  vault,  oppressive  to  the  senses, 
baffling  to  sight  and  hearing  alike.  From  out  it,  half-leafless 
branches,  like  gaunt  arms  in  tattered  draperies,  seemed  to  claw 
and  beckon  at  the  passing  carriage  and  its  occupants.  The 
silver  mountings  of  the  harness  showed  in  points  and  splashes 
of  hard,  shining  white  as  against  the  shifting,  universal  dead- 
whiteness  of  it,  while  the  breath  from  the  horses'  nostrils  rose 
into  it  as  defiant  jets  of  steam,  that  struggled  momentarily 
with  the  opaque,  all-enveloping  vapour,  only  to  be  absorbed 
and  obliterated  as  light  by  darkness,  or  life  by  death. 

The  aspect  presented  by  nature  was  sinister,  had  Richard 
Calmady  been  sufficiently  at  leisure  to  observe  it  in  detail. 
But,  as  he  slowly  v/alked  the  horses  up  and  down  the  quarter 
of  a  mile  of  woodland  drive,  leading  from  the  thatched  lodge 
on  the  right  of  the  Westchurch  road  to  the  house,  he  was  not 
;at  leisure.  He  had  received  enlightenment  on  many  subjects. 
»H.e  had  acquired  startling  impressions,  and  he  needed  to  place 
these,  to  bring  them  into  line  with  the  general  habit  of  his 
■thought.  The  majority  of  educated  persons — so-called — 
think  in  words,  words  often  arbitrary  and  inaccurate  enough, 
prolific  mothers  of  mental  confusion.  The  minority,  and 
those  of  by  no  means  contemptible  intellectual  calibre, — since 
the  symbol  must  count  for  more  than  the  mere  label, — think 
in  images  and  pictures.  Dickie  belonged  to  the  minority. 
And  it  must  be  conceded  that  his  mind  now  projected  against 
that  shifting,  impalpable  background  of  fog,  a  series  of  pictures 
which  in  their  cynical  pathos,  their  suggestions  at  once  volup- 


LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERCI  265 

tuous  and  degraded,  were  hardly  unworthy  of  the  great  master, 
William  Hogarth,  himself. 

For  Helen,  in  the  reaction  and  relief  caused  by  finding  her 
relation  to  Richard  unimpaired,  caused  too  by  that  joyous 
devilry  resident  in  her  and  constantly  demanding  an  object  on 
which  to  wreak  its  derision,  had  by  no  means  spared  her  lord 
and  master,  Angelo  Luigi  Francesco,  Vicomte  de  Vallorbes. 
And  this  only  son  of  a  thrifty,  hard-bitten,  Savoyard  banker- 
noble  and  a  Neopolitan  princess  of  easy  morals  and  ancient 
lineage,  this  Parisian  viveur^  his  intrigues,  his  jealousies,  his 
practical  ungodliness  and  underlying  superstition,  his  outbursts 
of  temper,  his  shrewd  economy  in  respect  of  others,  and  ex- 
tensive personal  extravagance,  offered  fit  theme,  with  aid  of 
little  romancing,  for  such  a  discourse  as  it  just  now  suited  his 
very  brilliant,  young  wife  to  pronounce. 

The  said  discourse  opened  in  a  low  key,  broken  by  pauses, 
by  tactful  self-accusations,  by  questionings  as  to  whether  it 
were  not  more  merciful,  more  loyal,  to  leave  this  or  that  un- 
told. But  as  she  proceeded,  not  only  did  Helen  suffer  the 
seductions  of  the  fine  art  of  lying,  but  she  really  began  to 
have  some  ado  to  keep  her  exuberant  sense  of  fun  within  due 
limits.  For  it  proved  so  excessively  exhilarating  to  deal  thus 
with  Angelo  Luigi  Francesco  !  She  had  old  scores  to  settle. 
And  had  she  not  this  very  day  received  an  odiously  disquiet- 
ing letter  from  him,  in  which  he  not  only  made  renewed  com- 
plaint of  her  poor,  little  miseries  of  debts  and  flirtations,  but 
once  more  threatened  retaliation  by  a  cutting-ofF  of  supplies  ? 
In  common  justice  did  he  not  deserve  villification  ?  Fhere- 
fore,  partly  out  of  revenge,  partly  in  self-justification,  she 
proceeded  with  increasing  enthusiasm  to  show  that  to  know 
M.  de  Vallorbes  was  a  lamentably  liberal  education  in  all 
civilised  iniquities.  With  a  hand,  sure  as  it  was  light,  she 
dissected  out  the  unhappy  gentleman,  and  offered  up  his 
mangled  and  bleeding  reputation  as  tribute  to  her  own  so- 
perpetually  outraged  moral  sense  and  feminine  delicacy,  not  to 
mention  her  so-repeatedly  and  vilely  wounded  heart.  And 
there  really  was  truth — as  at  each  fresh  flight  of  her  imagina- 
tion she  did  not  fail  to  remind  herself — in  all  that  which  she 
said.  Truth  ? — yes,  just  that  misleading  sufficiency  of  it  in 
which  a  lie  thrives.  For,  as  every  artist  "  in  this  kind  "  is 
aware,  precisely  as  you  would   have  the  overgrowth  of  your 


266  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

improvisation  richly  phenomenal  and  preposterous,  must  you 
be  careful  to  set  the  root  of  it  in  the  honest  soil  of  fact.  To 
omit  this  precaution  is  to  court  eventual  detection  and  con- 
sequent confusion  of  face. 

As  it  was,  Helen  entered  the  house  at  Newlands,  a  house 
singularly  unused  to  psychological  aberrations,  in  buoyant 
spirits,  mischief  sitting  in  her  discreetly  downcast  eyes,  laughter 
perplexing  her  lips.  She  had  placed  her  cargo  of  provocation, 
of  resentment,  to  such  excellent  advantage  !  She  was,  more- 
over, slightly  intoxicated  by  her  own  eloquence.  She  was  at 
peace  with  herself  and  all  mankind,  with  de  Vallorbes  even 
since  his  sins  had  afforded  her  so  rare  an  opportunity.  And 
this  occasioned  her  to  congratulate  herself  on  her  own  con- 
spicuous magnanimity.  It  is  so  exceedingly  pleasing  not  only 
to  know  yourself  clever,  but  to  believe  yourself  good !  She 
would  be  charming  to  these  dear  kind,  rather  dull  people. 
Not  that  Honoria  was  dull,  but  she  had  inconveniently  austere 
notions  of  honour  and  loyalty  at  moments.  And  then  the 
solitary  drive  home  with  Richard  Calmady  lay  ahead,  full  of 
possible  drama,  full  of,  well,  heaven  knew  what !  Oh  !  how 
entrancing  a  pastime  is  life ! 

But  to  Richard,  walking  the  snorting  and  impatient  horses 
slowly  up  and  down  the  woodland  drive  in  the  blear  and  sight- 
less fog,  life  appeared  quite  other  than  an  entrancing  pastime. 
The  pictures  projected  by  his  thought,  and  forming  the  medium 
of  it,  caused  him  black  indignation  and  revolt,  desolated  him, 
too,  with  a  paralysing  disgust  of  his  own  disabilities.  For 
poor  Dick  had  declined  somewhat  in  the  last  few  hours,  it 
must  be  owned,  from  the  celestial  altitudes  he  had  reached  be- 
fore luncheon.  Some  part  of  his  cousin's  discourse  had  been 
dangerously  intimate  in  character,  suggesting  situations  quite 
other  than  platonic.  To  him  there  appeared  a  noble  innocence 
in  her  treatment  of  matters  not  usually  spoken  of.  He  had 
listened  with  a  certain  reverent  amazement.  Only  out  of 
purity  of  mind  could  such  speech  come.  And  yet  an  unde- 
niable effect  remained,  and  it  was  not  altogether  elevating. 
Richard  was  no  longer  the  young  Sir  Galahad  of  the  noon- 
tide of  this  eventful  day.  He  was  just  simply  a  man — in  a 
sensible  degree  the  animal  man — loving  a  woman,  hating  that 
other  man  to  whom  she  was  legally  bound.  Hating  that  other 
man,  not  only  because  he  was  unworthy  and  failed   to  makfc. 


LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERCI  267 

her  happy,  but  because  he  stood  in  his — Richard's — way. 
Hating  the  man  all  the  more  fiercely  because,  whatever  the 
uncomeliness  of  his  moral  constitution,  he  was  physically  very 
far  from  uncomely.  And  so,  along  with  nobler  incitements 
to  hatred,  went  the  fiend  envy,  which  just  now  plucked  at 
poor  Dickie's  vitals  as  the  vulture  at  those  of  the  chained 
Titan  of  old.  Whereupon  he  fell  into  a  meditation  some- 
what morbid.  For,  contemplating  in  pictured  thought  that 
other  man's  bodily  perfection,  contemplating  his  property  and 
victim, — the  fair  modern  Helen,  who  by  her  courage  and  her 
trials  exercised  so  potent  a  spell  over  his  imagination, — Richard 
loathed  his  own  maimed  body,  maimed  chances  and  opportu- 
nities, as  he  had  never  loathed  them  before.  How  often  since 
his  childhood  had  some  casual  circumstance  or  trivial  accident 
brought  the  fact  of  his  misfortune  home  to  him,  causing  him — 
as  he  at  the  moment  supposed — to  reckon,  once  and  for  all, 
with  the  sum  total  of  it !  But  as  years  passed  and  experience 
widened,  below  each  depth  of  this  adhering  misery  another  deep 
disclosed  itself.  Would  he  never  reach  bottom  ?  Would 
this  inalienable  disgrace  continue  to  show  itself  more  re- 
stricting and  impeding  to  his  action,  more  repulsive  and  con- 
temptible to  his  fellow-men,  through  all  the  succeeding  stages 
and  vicissitudes  of  his  career,  right  to  the  very  close  ? 

To  her  hosts  Madame  de  Vallorbes  appeared  in  her  gayest 
and  most  engaging  humour.  It  was  only  a  Hying  visit,  she 
mustn't  stay,  Richard  was  waiting  for  her.  Only  she  felt  she 
must  just  have  two  words  with  Honoria.  And  say  good-bye? 
Yes,  ten  thousand  sorrows,  it  was  good-bye.  She  was  recalled 
to  Paris,  home,  and  duty.  She  made  an  expressive  little 
grimace  at  Miss  St.  Quentin. 

"Your  husband  will  be" — began  Mrs.  Cathcart,  in  her 
large,  gently  anthoritative  manner. 

"  Enchanted  to  see  me,  of  course,  dear  Cousin  Selina,  or  he 
would  not  have  required  my  return  thus  urgently.  We  may 
take  that  for  said.  Meanwhile  v/hat  strange  sprigs  of  nobility 
flourish  in  the  local  soil  here." 

And  she  proceeded  to  give  an  account  of  the  Fallowfeild 
party  at  luncheon  more  witty,  perhaps,  than  veracious.  Helen 
could  be  extremely  entertaining  on  occasion.  She  gave  reins 
to  her  tongue,  and  it  galloped  away  with  her  in  most  surpris- 
ing fashion. 


268  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

"  My  dear,  my  dear,"  interrupted  her  hostess, 
little  unkind  surely  !      My  dear,  you  are  a  little  flippant!  " 

But  Madame  de  Vallorbes  enveloped  her  in  the  most  as- 
suaging embrace. 

"Let  me  laugh  while  I  c?.n,  dearest  Cousin  Selina,"  she 
pleaded.  "  I  have  had  a  delightful  little  holiday.  Every  one 
has  been  charming  to  me.  You,  of  course — but  then  you  al- 
ways are  that.  Your  presence  breathes  consolation.  But 
Aunt  Katherine  has  been  charming  too,  and  that,  quite  between 
ourselves,  was  a  little  more  than  I  anticipated.  Now  the 
holiday  draws  to  a  close  and  pay-day  looms  large  ahead.  You 
know  nothing  about  such  pay-days,  thank  heaven,  dear  Cousin 
Selina.  They  are  far  from  joyous  inventions ;  and  so  " — the 
young  lady  spread  abroad  her  hands,  palms  upward,  and 
shrugged  her  shoulders  under  their  weight  of  costly  furs — 
^'and  so  I  laugh,  don't  you  understand,  I  laugh!  " 

Miss  St.  Quentin's  delicate,  square-cut  face  wore  an  air  of 
solicitude  as  she  followed  her  friend  out  of  the  room.  There 
was  a  trace  of  indolence  in  her  slow,  reflective  speech,  as  in 
her  long,  swinging  stride — the  indolence  bred  of  unconscious 
strength  rather  than  of  weakness,  the  leisureliness  which 
goes  with  staying  power  both  in  the  moral  and  the  physical 
domain. 

"  See  here,  Nellie,"  she  said,  "  forgive  brutal  frankness,  but 
which  is  the  real  thing  to-day — they're  each  delightful  in  their 
own  way — the  tears  or  the  laughter  ?  " 

"  Both  !  oh,  well-beloved  seeker  after  truth,"  Madame  de 
Vallorbes  answered.     "There  lies  the  value  of  the  situation.'* 

"  Fresh  worries  ?  " 

"  No,  no,  the  old,  the  accustomed,  the  well-accredited,  the 
normal,  the  stock  ones — a  husband  and  a  financial  crisis." 

As  she  spoke  Madame  de  Vallorbes  fastened  the  buttons  of 
her  long  driving-coat.  Miss  St.  Quentin  knelt  down  and 
busied  herself  with  the  lowest  of  these.  Her  tall,  slender 
figure  was  doubled  together.     She  kept  her  head  bent. 

"  I  happen  to  have  a  pretty  tidy  balance  just  now,"  she 
remarked  parenthetically,  and  as  though  with  a  certain  diffi- 
dence. "So  you  know,  if  you  are  a  bit  hard  up — why — it's 
all  perfectly  simple,  Nellie,  don't  you  know." 

For  a  perceptible  space  of  time  Madame  de  Vallorbes  did 
not  answer.     A  grating  of  wheels  on  the  gravel  arrested  her 


LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERCI  269 

attention.  She  looked  down  the  long  vista  of  ruddily  lighted 
hall,  with  its  glowing  fire  and  cheerful  lamps  to  the  open  door, 
where,  against  the  blear  whiteness  of  the  fog,  the  mail-phaeton 
and  its  occupant  showed  vague,  in  outline  and  in  proportions 
almost  gigantic  against  the  thick,  shifting  atmosphere.  Miss 
St.  Quentin  raised  her  head,  surprised  at  her  companion's 
silence.  Helen  de  Vallorbes  bent  down,  took  the  upturned 
face  in  both  hands  and  kissed  the  soft  cheeks  with  effusion. 

''You  are  adorable,"  she  said.  ''  But  you  are  too  generous. 
You  shall  lend  me  nothing  more.  I  believe  I  see  my  way.  I 
can  scrape  through  this  crisis." 

Miss  St.  Quentin  rose  to  her  feet. 

"All  right,"  she  said,  smiling  upon  her  friend  from  her 
superior  height  with  a  delightful  air  of  affection  and  apology. 
""  I  only  wanted  you  just  to  know,  in  case — don't  you  see. 
And — and — for  the  rest,  how  goes  it  Helen  ?  Are  you  turn- 
ing all  their  poor  heads  at  Brockhurst  ?  You're  rather  an  upset- 
ting being  to  let  loose  in  an  ordinary,  respectable,  English 
country-house.  A  sort  of  Mousquetaire  au  convent  the  other 
way  about,  don't  you  knov;^.  Are  you  making  things  fly 
generally  ? " 

"  I  am  making  nothing  fly,"  the  other  lady  rejoined  gaily. 
*'  I  am  as  inoffensive  as  a  stained-glass  saint  in  a  chapel 
window.     I  am  absolutely  angelic." 

"  That's  worst  of  all,"  Honoria  exclaimed,  still  smiling. 
*' When  you're  angelic  you  are  most  particularly  deadly.  For 
the  preservation  of  local  innocents,  somebody  ought  to  go  and 
hoist  danger  signals." 

Miss  St.  Quentin,  after  just  a  moment's  hesitation,  followed 
her  friend  through  the  warm,  bright  hall  to  the  door.  Then 
Helen  de  Vallorbes  turned  to  her. 

"  y/«  r^z;^/>,  dearest  Honoria,"  she  said,  "and  the  sooner 
the  better.  Leave  your  shopgirls  and  distressed  needlewomen, 
and  all  your  other  good  works  for  a  still  better  one — namely 
for  me.  Come  and  reclaim,  and  comfort,  and  support  me  for 
a  while  In  Paris." 

Again  she  kissed  the  soft  cheek. 

"  I  am  as  good  as  gold.  I  am  just  now  actually  mawkish 
r  ith  virtue,"  she  murmured,  between  the  kisses. 

Richard  witnessed  this  exceedingly  pretty  leave-taking  not 
without  a  movement  of  impatience.     The  fog  was  thickening: 


270  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

once  more.  It  grew  late.  He  wished  his  cousin  would  get 
through  with  these  amenities.  Then,  moreover,  he  did  not 
covet  intercourse  with  Miss  St.  Quentin.  He  pulled  the  fur 
rug  aside  with  his  left  hand,  holding  reins  and  whip  in  his 
right. 

"  I  say,  are  you  nearly  ready  ?  "  he  asked.  "  I  don't  want 
to  bother  you ;  but  really  it's  about  time  we  were  moving." 

"  I  come,  I  come,"  Madame  de  Vallorbes  cried,  in  answer. 
She  put  one  neatly-shod  foot  on  the  axle,  and  stepped  up— 
Richard  holding  out  his  hand  to  steady  her.  A  sense,  at  once 
pleasurable  and  defiant,  of  something  akin  to  ownership^ 
came  over  him  as  he  did  so.  Just  then  his  attention  was 
claimed  by  a  voice  addressing  him  from  the  further  side  of  the 
carriage.  Honoria  St.  Quentin  stood  on  the  gravel  close  be- 
side him,  bare-headed,  in  the  clinging  damp  and  chill  of  the 
fog. 

"Give  my  love  to  Lady  Calmady,"  she  said.  "I  hope  I 
shall  see  her  again  some  day.  But,  even  if  I  never  have  the 
luck  to  do  that,  in  a  way  it'll  make  no  real  difference.  I've 
written  her  name  in  my  private  calendar,  and  shall  always 
remember  it." — She  paused  a  moment.  "  We  got  rather 
near  each  other  somehow,  I  think.  We  didn't  dawdle  or 
beat  about  the  bush,  but  went  straight  along,  passed  the 
initial  stages  of  acquaintance  in  a  few  hours,  and  reached  that 
point  of  friendship  where  forgetting  becomes  impossible. 

"My  mother  never  forgets,"  Richard  asserted,  and  there 
was,  perhaps,  a  slight  edge  to  his  tone.  Looking  down  into 
the  girl's  pale,  finely-moulded  face,  meeting  the  glance  of 
those  steady,  strangely  clear  and  observant  eyes,  he  received 
an  impression  of  something  uncompromisingly  sincere  and  in 
a  measure  protective.  This,  for  cause  unknown,  he  resented. 
Notwithstanding  her  high  breeding,  Miss  St.  Quentin's  attitude 
appeared  to  him  a  trifle  intrusive  just  then. 

"  I  am  very  sure  of  that — that  your  mother  never  forgets,  I 
mean.  One  knows,  at  once,  one  can  trust  her  down  to  the 
ground  and  on  to  the  end  of  the  ages." — Again  she  paused,  as 
though  rallying  herself  against  a  disinclination  for  further 
speech.  "  All  captivating  women  aren't  made  on  that  pattern^ 
unfortunately,  you  know.  Sir  Richard.  A  good  many  of  them 
it's  wisest  not  to  trust  anything  like  down  to  the  ground,  or 
longer  than — well — the  day  before  yesterday." 


LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERCI  271 

And  without  waiting  for  any  reply  to  this  cryptic  utterance, 
she  stepped  swiftly  round  behind  the  carriage  again,  waved  her 
hand  from  the  door-step  and  then  swung  away,  with  lazy,  long- 
limbed  grace,  past  the  waiting  men-servants  and  through  to  the 
ruddy  brightness  of  the  hall. 

Madame  de  Vallorbes  settled  herself  back  rather  languidly 
In  her  place.  She  was  pricked  by  a  sharp  point  of  curiosity, 
regarding  the  tenor  of  Miss  St.  Quentin's  mysterious  colloquy 
with  Richard  Calmady.  She  had  been  able  to  catch  but  a 
word  here  and  there,  and  these  had  been  provokingly  suggestive. 
Had  the  well-beloved  Honoria,  in  a  moment  of  overscrupulous 
conscientiousness  permitted  herself  to  hoist  danger  signals  ? 
She  wanted  to  know,  for  it  was  her  business  to  haul  such 
down  again  with  all  possible  despatch.  She  intended  the 
barometer  to  register  set  fair  whatever  the  weather  actually 
impending.  Yet  to  institute  direct  inquiries  might  be  to 
invite  suspicion.  Helen,  therefore,  declined  upon  diplomacy, 
upon  the  inverted  sweetnesses  calculated  nicely  to  mask  an  in- 
tention quite  other  than  sweet.  She  really  held  her  friend  in 
very  warm  affection.  But  Madame  de  Vallorbes  never  con- 
fused secondary  and  primary  issues.  When  you  have  a  really 
big  deal  on  hand — and  of  the  bigness  of  her  present  deal  the 
last  quarter  of  an  hour  had  brought  her  notably  increased 
assurance — even  the  dearest  friend  must  stand  clear  and  get 
very  decidedly  out  of  the  way.  So,  while  the  muffled  thud  of 
the  horses'  hoofs  echoed  up  from  the  hard  gravel  of  the  car- 
riage drive  through  the  thick  atmosphere,  and  the  bare  limbs 
of  the  trees  clawed,  as  with  lean  arms  clothed  in  tattered 
draperies,  at  the  passing  carriage  and  its  occupants,  she  con- 
tented herself  by  observing  : — 

"  I  am  grateful  to  you  for  driving  me  over,  Richard. 
Honoria  is  very  perfect  in  her  own  way.  It  always  does  mc 
good  to  see  her.     She's  quite  unlike  anybody  else,  isn't  she  ?  " 

But  Richard's  eyes  were  fixed  upon  the  blank  wall  of  fog 
just  ahead,  which,  though  always  stable,  always  receded  before 
the  advancing  carriage.  The  effect  of  it  was  unpleasant  some- 
how, holding,  as  it  did  to  his  mind,  suggestions  of  other  things 
still  more  baffling  and  impending,  from  which — though  you 
might  keep  them  at  arm's  length — there  was  no  permanent 
or  actual  escape.  The  question  of  Miss  St.  Quentin's  char- 
acteristics did  not  consequenrV  greatly  interest  him.     He  had 


272  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

arrived  at  conclusions.  There  was  a  matter  of  vital  im- 
portance on  which  he  desired  to  speak  to  his  cousin.  But 
how  to  do  that  ?  Richard  was  young  and  excellently  modest.. 
His  whole  purpose  was  rather  fiercely  focused  on  speech. 
But  he  was  diffident,  fearing  to  approach  the  subject  which 
he  had  so  much  at  heart  clumsily  and  in  a  tactless,  tasteless 
manner. 

"  Miss  St.  Quentin  ?  Oh  yes  !  "  he  replied,  rather  ab- 
sently. "  I  really  know  next  to  nothing  about  her.  And  she 
seems  merely  to  regard  me  as  a  vehicle  of  communication  be- 
tween herself  and  my  mother.  She  sent  her  messages  just  now 
— I  hope  to  goodness  I  shan't  forget  to  deliver  them  !  She 
and  my  mother  appear  to  have  fallen  pretty  considerably  in 
love  with  one  another." 

"  Probably,"  Madame  de  Vallorbes  said  softly.  An  agree- 
able glow  of  relief  passed  over  her.  She  looked  up  at  Richard 
with  a  delightful  effect  of  pensiveness  from  beneath  the  sweep- 
ing brim  of  her  cavalier  hat. — "  I  can  well  believe  Aunt 
Katherine  would  be  attracted  by  her,"  she  continued. 
"  Honoria  is  quite  a  woman's  woman.  Men  do  not  care  very^ 
much  about  her  as  a  rule.  There  is  a  good  deal  of  latent 
vanity  resident  in  the  members  of  your  sex,  you  know, 
Richard ;  and  men  are  usually  conscious  that  Honoria  does  not 
care  so  very  much  about  them.  They  are  quite  right,  she 
does  not.  I  really  believe  when  poor,  dreadful,  old  Lady 
Tombermory  left  her  all  that  money  Honoria's  first  thought 
was  that  now  she  might  embrace  celibacy  with  a  good  con- 
science. The  St.  Quentins  are  not  precisely  millionaires, 
you  know.  Her  wealth  left  her  free  to  espouse  the  cause  of 
womanhood  at  large.  She  is  a  little  bit  Quixotic,  dear  thing, 
and  given  to  tilting  at  windmills.  She  wants  to  secure  ta 
working  women  a  fair  business  basis — that  is  the  technical 
expression,  I  believe.  And  so  she  starts  clubs,  and  forms 
circles.  She  says  women  must  be  encouraged  to  combine  and 
to  agitate.  Whether  they  are  capable  of  combining  I  do  not 
pretend  to  say.  These  high  matters  transcend  my  small  wit. 
But,  as  I  have  often  pointed  out  to  her,  agitation  is  the 
natural  attitude  of  every  woman.  It  would  seem  superfluous  to 
encourage  or  inculcate  that,  for  surely  wherever  two  or  three 
petticoats  are  gathered  together,  there,  as  far  as  my  experience- 
goes,  is  agitation  of  necessity  in  the  midst  of  them." 


LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERCI  273 

Madame  de  Vallorbes  leaned  back  with  a  little  sigh  and  air 
of  exquisite  resignation. 

''All  the  same,  the  majority  of  women  are  unhappy  enough, 
heaven  knows  !  If  Honoria,  or  any  other  sweet,  feminine 
Quixote,  can  find  means  to  lighten  the  burden  of  our  lives,  she 
has  my  very  sincere  thanks,  well  understood." 

Richard  drew  his  whip  across  the  backs  of  the  trotting 
horses,  making  them  plunge  forward  against  that  blank,  im- 
palpable wall  of  all-encircling,  ever-receding,  ever-present  fog. 
The  carriage  had  just  crossed  the  long,  white-railed  bridge, 
spanning  the  little  river  and  space  of  marsh  on  either  side,  and 
now  entered  Sandyfield  Street.  The  tops  of  the  tall  Lom- 
bardy  poplars  were  lost  in  gloom.  Now  and  again  the  redness 
of  a  lighted  cottage  window,  blurred  and  contorted  in  shape, 
showed  through  the  gray  pall.  Slow-moving,  country  figures, 
passing  vehicles,  a  herd  of  some  eight  or  ten  cows — preceded 
by  a  diabolic  looking  billy-goat,  and  followed  by  a  lad  astride 
the  hind-quarters  of  a  bare-backed  donkey — grew  out  of  pallid 
nothingness  as  the  carriage  came  abreast  of  them,  and  receded 
with  mysterious  rapidity  into  nothingness  again.  The  eff'ect 
was  curiously  fantastic  and  unreal.  And  as  the  minutes 
passed  that  effect  of  unreality  gained  upon  Richard's  imagina- 
tion, until  now — as  last  evening  in  the  stately  solitude  of  the  Long 
Gallery — he  became  increasingly  aware  of  the  personality  of 
his  companion,  increasingly  penetrated  by  the  feeling  of  being 
alone  with  that  personality,  as  though  the  world,  so  strangely 
blotted  out  by  these  dim,  obliterating  vapours,  were  indeed 
vacant  of  all  human  interest,  human  purpose,  human  history, 
save  that  incarnate  in  this  fair  woman  and  his  own  relation  to 
her.  She  alone  existed,  concrete,  exquisite,  sentient,  amid  the 
vague,  shifting  immensities  of  fog.  She  alone  mattered. 
Her  near  neighbourhood  worked  upon  him  strongly,  causing 
an  excitement  in  him  which  at  once  hindered  and  demanded 
speech. 

Night  began  to  close  in  in  good  earnest.  Passing  the 
broad,  yellowish  glare  streaming  out  from  the  rounded  tap- 
room window  of  the  Calmady  Arms,  and  passing  from  the  end 
of  the  village  street  on  to  the  open  common,  the  light  had  be- 
come so  uncertain  that  Richard  could  no  longer  see  his  com- 
panion's face  clearly.  This  was  almost  a  relief  to  him,  so  that, 
mastering  at  once  his  diffidence  and  his  excitement,  he  spoke. 


274  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

"  Look  here,  Helen/*  he  said,  "  I  have  been  thinking  over 
all  that  you  told  me.  I  don't  want  to  dwell  on  subjects  that 
must  be  very  painful  to  you,  but  I  can't  help  thinking  about 
them.  It's  not  that  I  won't  leave  them  alone,  but  that  they 
won't  leave  me.  I  don't  want  to  presume  upon  your  con- 
fidence, or  take  too  much  upon  myself.  Only,  don't  you  see, 
now  that  I  do  know  it's  impossible  to  sit  down  under  it  all  and 
let  things  go  on  just  the  same. — You're  not  angry  with  me  ?  " 

The  young  man  spoke  very  carefully  and  calmly,  yet  the 
tones  of  his  voice  were  heavily  charged  with  feeling. 

Madame  de  Vallorbes  clasped  her  hands  rather  tightly 
within  her  sable  mufF.  Unconsciously  she  began  to  sway  a 
little,  just  a  very  little,  as  a  person  will  sway  in  time  to  strains 
of  stirring  music.  An  excitement,  not  mental  merely  but 
physical,  invaded  her.  For  she  recognised  that  she  stood  on 
the  threshold  of  developments  in  this  very  notable  drama. 
Still  she  answered  quietly,  with  a  touch  even  of  weariness. 

"  Ah  !  dear  Richard,  it  is  so  friendly  and  charming  of  you 
to  take  my  infelicities  thus  to  heart !  But  to  what  end,  to 
what  end,  I  ask  you  ?  The  conditions  are  fixed.  Escape 
from  them  is  impossible.  I  have  made  my  bed — made  it 
most  abominably  uncomfortably,  I  admit,  but  that  is  not  to 
the  point — and  I  must  lie  on  it.  There  is  no  redress.  There 
is  nothing  to  be  done." 

"  Yes,  there  is  this,"  he  replied.  "I  know  it  is  wretchedly 
inadequate,  it  doesn't  touch  the  root  of  the  matter.  Oh  !  it's 
miserably  inadequate — I  should  think  I  did  know  that !  Only 
it  might  smooth  the  surface  a  bit,  perhaps,  and  put  a  stop  to 
one  source  of  annoyance.  Forgive  me  if  I  say  what  seems 
coarse  or  clumsy — but  would  not  your  position  be  easier  if,  in 
regard  to — to  money,  you  were  quite  independent  of  that — of 
your  husband,  I  mean — M.  de  Vallorbes  ?  " 

For  a  moment  the  young  lady  remained  very  still,  and 
stared  very  hard  at  the  fog.  The  most  surprising  visions 
arose  before  her.  She  had  a  difficulty  in  repressing  an  ex- 
clamation. 

"Ah!  there  now,  I  have  blundered.  I've  hurt  you.  I've 
made  you  angry,"  Dickie  cried  impulsively. 

"  No,  no,  dear  Richard,"  she  answered,  with  admirable 
gentleness,  "I  am  not  angry.  Only  what  is  the  use  of 
romancing  ? " 


LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERCI  275 

"  I  am  not  romancing.  It  is  the  simplest  thing  out,  if  you 
will  but  have  it  so." 

He  hesitated  a  little.  The  horses  were  pulling,  the  fog 
was  in  his  throat  thick  and  choking — or  was  it,  perhaps, 
something  more  unsubstantial  and  intangible  even  than  fog  ? 
The  spacious  barns  and  rickyards  of  the  Church  Farm  were 
just  visible  on  the  right.  In  less  than  five  minutes  more,  at 
their  present  pace,  the  horses  would  reach  the  first  park  gate. 
The  young  man  felt  he  must  give  himself  time.  He  quieted 
the  horses  down  into  a  walk. 

"If  I  were  your  brother,  Helen,  I  should  save  you  all 
these  sordid  money  worries  as  a  matter  of  course.  You  have 
no  brother — so,  don't  you  see,  I  come  next.  It's  a  perfectly 
obvious  arrangement.     Just  let  me  be  your  banker,"  he  said. 

Adadame  de  Vallorbes  shut  her  pretty  teeth  together.  She 
could  have  danced,  she  could  have  sung  aloud  for  very  gaiety 
of  heart.  She  had  not  anticipated  this  turn  to  the  situation ; 
but  it  was  a  delicious  one.  It  had  great  practical  merits. 
Her  brain  worked  rapidly.  Immediately  those  practical  merits 
ranged  themselves  before  her  in  detail.  But  she  would  play 
with  it  a  little — both  diplomacy  and  good  taste,  in  which  last 
she  was  by  no  means  deficient,  required  that. 

"  Ah !  you  forget,  dear  Richard,"  she  said,  "  in  your 
friendly  zeal  you  forget  that,  in  our  rank  of  life,  there  is  one 
thing  a  woman  cannot  accept  from  a  man.  To  take  money 
is  to  lay  yourself  open  to  slanderous  tongues,  is  to  court 
scandal.  Sooner  or  later  it  is  known,  the  fact  leaks  out. 
And  however  innocent  the  intention,  however  noble  and 
honest  the  giving,  however  grateful  and  honest  the  receiving, 
the  world  puts  but  one  construction  upon  such  a  transaction." 

"  The  world's  beastly  evil-minded  then,"  Richard  said. 

"  So  it  is.  But  that  is  no  news,  Dickie  dear,"  Madame  de 
Vallorbes  answered.     "  Nor  is  it  exactly  to  the  point." 

Inwardly  she  trembled  a  little.  What  if  she  had  headed 
him  off  too  cleverly,  and  he  should  regard  her  argument  as 
convincing,  her  refusal  as  final  ?  Her  fears  were  by  no 
means  lessened  by  the  young  man's  protracted  silence. 

"  No,  I  don't  agree,"  he  said  at  last.  "  I  suppose  there  are 
always  risks  to  be  run  m  securing  anything  at  all  worth  secur- 
ing, and  it  seems  to  me,  if  you  look  at  it  all  round,  the  risks 
in  this  case  are  very  slight.     Only  you — and  M.  de  Vallorbes 


276  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

need  know.  I  suppose  he  must.  But  then,  if  you  wiil 
pardon  my  saying  so,  after  what  you  have  told  me  I  can't 
imagine  he  is  the  sort  of  person  who  is  likely  to  object  very 
much  to  an  arrangement  by  which  he  would  benefit,  at  least 
indirectly.  As  for  the  world," — Richard  ceased  to  contem- 
plate his  horses.  He  tried  to  speak  lightly,  while  his  eyes 
sought  that  dimly  seen  face  at  his  elbow.  "  Oh,  well,  hang 
the  world,  Helen  !  It's  easy  enough  for  me  to  say  so,  I  dare 
say,  being  but  so  slightly  acquainted  with  it  and  the  ways  of 
it.  But  the  world  can't  be  so  wholly  hide-bound  and  idiotic 
that  it  denies  the  existence  of  exceptional  cases.  And  this 
case,  in  some  of  its  bearings  at  all  events,  is  wholly  excep- 
tional, I  am — happy  to  think." 

"You  are  a  very  convincing  special  pleader,  Richard,'* 
Madame  de  Vallorbes  said  softly. 

"  Then  you  accept  ? "  he  rejoined  exultantly.  "  You 
accept  ? " 

The  young  lady  could  not  quite  control  herself. 

"  Ah  !  if  you  only  knew  the  prodigious  relief  it  would  be," 
she  exclaimed,  with  an  outbreak  of  impatience.  "  It  would 
make  an  incalculable  difference.  And  yet  I  do  not  see  my 
way.     I  am  in  a  cleft  stick.     I  dare  not  say  Yes.    And  to  say 

No "     Her  sincerity  was  unimpeachable  at  that  moment. 

Her  eyes  actually  filled  with  tears.  "  Pah  !  I  am  ashamed 
of  myself,"  she  cried,  "  but  to  refuse  is  distracting." 

The  gate  of  the  outer  park  had  been  reached.  The  groom 
swung  himself  down  and  ran  forward,  but  confused  by  the 
growing  darkness  and  the  thick  atmosphere  he  fumbled  for  a 
time  before  finding  the  heavy  latch.  The  horses  became 
somewhat  restive,  snorting  and  fidgeting. 

••'  Steady  there,  steady,  good  lass,"  Richard  said  soothingly. 
Then  he  turned  again  to  his  companion.  "  Believe  me  it's 
the  very  easiest  thing  out  to  accept,  if  you'll  only  look  at  it  all 
from  the  right  point  of  view,  Helen." 

Madame  de  Vallorbes  withdrew  her  right  hand  from  he"  muff 
and  laid  it,  almost  timidly,  upon  the  young  man's  arm. 

"  Do  you  know,  you  are  wonderfully  dear  to  me,  Dick  ?  '* 
she  said,  and  her  voice  shook  slightly.  She  was  genuinely 
touched  and  moved.  "  No  one  has  ever  been  quite  so  dear 
to  me  before.  It  is  a  new  experience.  It  takes  my  breath 
away  a  little.     It  makes  me  regret  some  things  I  have  done. 


LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERCI  277 

But  it  Is  a  mistake  to  go  back  on  what  is  past,  don't  you  think 
so  ?  Therefore  we  will  go  forward.  Tell  me,  expound. 
What  is  this  so  agreeably  reconciling  point  of  view? " 

But  along  with  the  touch  of  her  hand,  a  great  wave  of  emo- 
tion swept  over  poor  Richard,  making  his  grasp  on  th^  reins 
very  unsteady.  The  sensations  he  had  suffered  last  evening 
in  the  Long  Gallery  again  assailed  him.  The  flesh  had  its 
word  to  say.  Speech  became  difficult.  Meanwhile  his  agita- 
tion communicated  itself  strangely  to  the  horses.  They  sprang 
forward  against  that  all-encircling,  ever-present,  yet  ever-re- 
ceding, blank  wall  of  fog,  to  which  the  overarching  trees  lent 
an  added  gloom  and  mystery,  as  though  some  incarnate  terror 
pursued  them.  The  gate  clanged-to  behind  the  carriage.  The 
groom  scrambled  breathlessly  into  his  place.  Sir  Richard's 
driving  was  rather  reckless,  he  ventured  to  think,  on  such  a 
nasty,  dark  night,  and  with  a  lady  along  of  him  too.  He  was 
not  sorry  when  the  pace  slowed  down  to  a  walk.  That  was  a 
long  sight  safer,  to  his  thinking. 

''The  right  point  of  view  is  this,"  Richard  said  at  last; 
*'that  in  accepting  you  would  be  doing  that  which,  in  some 
ways,  would  make  just  all  the  difference  to  my  life." 

He  held  himself  very  upright  on  the  sloping  driving-seat, 
rather  cruelly  conscious  of  the  broad  strap  about  his  waist,  and 
the  high,  unsightly  driving-Iron  against  which,  concealed  by 
the  heavy,  fur  rug,  his  feet  pushed  as  he  steadied  himself.  He 
paused,  gazing  away  into  the  silent  desolation  of  the  now  in- 
visible woods,  and  when  he  spoke  again  his  voice  had  deepened 
in  tone. 

"  It  must  be  patent  to  you — it  is  rather  detestably  patent  to 
every  one,  I  suppose,  if  it  comes  to  that — that  I  am  condemned 
to  be  of  precious  little  use  to  myself  or  any  one  else.  I  share 
the  fate  of  the  immortal  Sancho  Panza  in  his  island  of  Bara- 
tarla.  A  very  fine  feast  is  spread  before  me,  while  I  find  my- 
self authoritatively  forbidden  to  cat  first  of  this  dish  and  then 
of  that,  until  I  end  by  being  every  bit  as  hungry  as  though  the 
table  was  bare.  It  becomes  rather  a  nuisance  at  times,  you 
know,  and  taxes  one's  temper  and  one's  philosophy.  It  seems 
a  little  rough  to  possess  all  that  so  many  men  of  my  age  would 
give  just  anything  to  have,  and  yet  be  unable  to  get  anything 
but  unsatisfied  hunger,  and — in  plain  English — humiliation, 
out  of  it." 


278  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

Mada  ne  de  Vallorbes  sat  very  still.  Her  charming  face 
had  grown  keen.  She  listened,  drawing  in  her  breath  with  a 
little  sobbing  sound — but  that  was  only  the  result  of  accentu- 
ated dramatic  satisfaction. 

"  You  see  I  have  no  special  object  o^  ambition.  I  can't 
have  one.  I  just  pass  the  time.  I  don't  see  any  prospect  of 
my  ever  being  able  to  do  more  than  that.  There's  my  mother, 
of  course.  I  need  not  tell  you  she  and  I  love  one  another. 
And  there  are  the  horses.  But  I  don't  care  to  bet,  and  I 
never  attend  a  race-meeting.  I — I  do  not  choose  to  make  an 
exhibition  of  myself." 

Again  Helen  drew  her  hand  out  of  her  muff,  but  this  time 
quickly,  impulsively,  and  laid  it  on  Richard's  left  hand  which 
held  the  reins.  The  young  man's  breath  caught  in  his  throat, 
he  leaned  sideways  towards  her,  her  shoulder  touching  his 
elbow,  the  trailing  plumes  of  her  hat — now  limp  from  the 
clinging  moisture  of  the  fog — for  a  moment  brushing  his 
cheek. 

"  Helen,"  he  said  rapidly,  "  don't  you  understand  it's  in 
your  power  to  alter  all  this  ?  By  accepting  you  would  do  in- 
finitely more  for  me  than  I  could  ever  dream  of  doing  for  you. 
You'd  give  me  something  to  think  of  and  plan  about.  If 
you'll  only  have  whatever  wretched  money  you  need  now,  and 
have  more  whenever  you  want  it — if  you'll  let  me  feel,  how- 
ever rarely  we  meet,  that  you  depend  on  me  and  trust  me  and 
let  me  make  things  a  trifle  easier  and  smoother  for  you,  you 
will  be  doing  such  an  act  of  charity  as  ^ew  women  have  ever 
done.  Don't  refuse,  for  pity's  sake  don't !  I  don't  want  to 
whine,  but  things  were  not  precisely  gay  before  your  coming, 
you  know.  Need  it  be  added  they  promise  to  be  less  so  than 
ever  after  you  are  gone  ?  So  listen  to  reason.  Do  as  I  ask 
you.     Let  me  be  of  use  in  the  only  way  I  can." 

"  Do  you  consider  what  you  propose  ? "  Madame  de 
Vallorbes  asked,  slowly.  "It  is  a  good  deal.  It  is  dangerous. 
With  most  men  such  a  compact  would  be  wholly  inadmis- 
sible." 

Then  poor  Dickie  lost  himself.  The  strain  of  the  last  week 
the  young,  headlong  passion  aroused  in  him,  the  misery  of  his 
deformity,  the  accumulated  bitterness  and  rebellion  of  years 
arose  and  overflowed  as  a  great  flood.  Pride  went  down  be- 
fore it,  and  reticence,  and  decencies  of  self-respect.     Richard 


LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERCI  279 

turned  and  rent  himself,  without  mercy  and,  for  the  moment, 
without  shame.  He  pelted  himself  with  cruel  words,  with 
scorn  and  self-contempt,  while  he  laughed,  and  the  sound  of 
that  laughter  wandered  away  weirdly  through  the  chill  density 
of  the  fog,  under  the  tall,  shadowy  firs  of  the  great  avenue, 
over  the  sombre-heather,  out  into  the  veiled,  crowded  darkness 
of  the  wide  woods. 

"  But  I  am  not  as  other  men  are,"  he  answered.  "  I  am  a 
creature  by  myself,  a  unique  development  as  much  outside  the 
normal  social,  as  I  am  outside  the  normal  physical  law.  I — 
alone  by  myself — think  of  it! — abnormal,  extraordinary! 
You  are  safe  enough  with  me,  Helen.  Safe  to  indulge  and 
humour  me  as  you  might  a  monkey  or  a  parrot.  All  the 
world  will  understand  that !  Only  my  mother,  and  a  few  old 
friends  and  old  servants  take  me  seriously.  To  every  one  else 
I  am  an  embarrassment,  a  more  or  less  distressing  curiosity." 
— He  met  little  Lady  Constance  Quale's  ruminant  stare  again 
in  imagination,  heard  Lord  Fallowfeild's  blundering  speech. — 
"Remember  our  luncheon  to-day.  It  was  flattering,  at 
moments,  wasn't  it  ?  And  so  if  I  do  queer  things,  things  off 
the  conventional  lines,  who  will  be  surprised  ?  No  one,  I  tell 
you,  not  even  the  most  strait-laced  or  censorious.  Allow  me 
at  least  the  privileges  of  my  disabilities.  I  am  a  dwarf — a 
cripple.  I  shall  never  be  otherwise.  Had  I  lived  a  century 
or  two  ago  I  should  have  made  sport  for  you,  and  such  as  you, 
as  some  rich  man's  professional  fool.  And  so,  if  I  overstep 
the  usual  limits,  who  will  comment  on  that  ?  Queer  things, 
crazy  things,  are  in  the  part.     What  do  I  matter  ?  " 

Richard  laughed  aloud. 

''  At  least  I  have  this  advantage,  that  in  my  case  you  can 
do  what  you  can  do  in  the  case  of  no  other  man.  With  me 
you  needn't  be  afraid.  No  one  will  think  evil.  With  me — 
yes,  after  all,  there  is  a  drop  of  comfort  in  it — with  me,  Helen, 
you're  safe  enough." 


28o  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 


CHAPTER  X 

MR.    LUDOVIC   QUAYLE    AMONG   THE    PROPHETS 

'TpHAT  same  luncheon  party  at  Brockhurst,  if  not  notably 
■*'  satisfactory  to  the  hosts,  afforded  much  subsequent  food 
for  meditation  to  one  at  least  of  the  guests.  During  the  even- 
ing immediately  following  it,  and  even  in  the  watches  of  the 
night,  Lady  Louisa  Barking's  thought  was  persistently  en- 
gaged with  the  subject  of  Richard  Calmady,  his  looks,  his 
character,  his  temper,  his  rent-roll,  the  acreage  of  his  estates, 
and  his  prospects  generally.  Nor  did  her  interest  remain 
hidden  and  inarticulate.  For,  finding  that  in  various  particu- 
lars her  knowledge  was  superficial  and  clearly  insufficient,  on 
her  journey  from  Westchurch  up  to  town  next  day,  in  com- 
pany with  her  brother  Ludovic,  she  put  so  many  questions  to 
that  accomplished  young  gentleman  that  he  shortly  divined 
some  serious  purpose  in  her  inquiry. 

"  We  all  recognise,  my  dear  Louisa,"  he  remarked  pres- 
ently, laying  aside  the  day's  Times,  of  which  he  had  vainly 
essayed  the  study,  with  an  air  of  gentle  resignation,  crossing 
his  long  legs  and  leaning  back  in  his  corner  of  the  railway 
carriage,  "  that  you  are  the  possessor  of  an  eminently  practical 
mind.  You  have  run  the  family  for  some  years  now,  not 
without  numerous  successes,  among  which  may  be  reckoned 
your  running  of  yourself  into  the  arms — if  you  will  pardon  my 
mentioning  them — of  my  estimable  brother-in-law,  Barking." 

"  Really,  Ludovic !  "  his  sister  protested. 

"  Let  me  entreat  you  not  to  turn  restive,  Louisa,"  Mr. 
Quayle  rejoined  with  the  utmost  suavity.  "  I  am  paying  a 
high  compliment  to  your  intelligence.  To  have  run  into  the 
arms  of  R4r.  Barking,  or  indeed  of  anybody  else,  casually  and 
involuntarily,  to  have  blundered  into  them — if  I  may  so  ex- 
press myself — would  have  been  a  stupidity.  But  to  run  into 
them  intentionally  and  voluntarily  argues  considerable  powers 
of  strategy,  an  intelligent  direction  of  movement  which  I 
respect  and  admire." 


LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERCI  281 


u 


I 


You  are  really  exceedingly  provoking,  Ludovic !  *' 

Lady  Louisa  pushed  the  square,  leather-covered  dressing- 
case,  on  v^hich  her  feet  had  been  resting,  impatiently  aside. 

"  Far  from  it,'*  the  young  man  answered.  "  Can  I  put  that 
box  anywhere  else  for  you  ?  You  like  it  just  where  it  is? — 
Yes  ?  But  I  assure  you  I  am  not  provoking.  1  am  merely 
complimentary.  Conversation  is  an  art,  Louisa.  None  of 
my  sisters  ever  can  be  got  to  understand  that.  It  is  dreadfully 
crude  to  rush  in  waist-deep  at  once.  There  should  be  feints 
and  approaches.  You  should  nibble  at  your  sugar  with  a 
graceful  coyness.  You  should  cut  a  few  frills  and  skirmish  a 
little  before  setting  the  battle  actively  in  array.  And  it  is  just 
this  that  I  have  been  striving  to  do  during  the  last  five  minutes. 
But  you  do  not  appear  to  appreciate  the  commendable  style  of 
my  preliminaries.  You  want  to  engage  immediately.  There 
is  usually  a  first-rate  underlying  reason  for  your  interest  in 
anybody " 

Again  the  lady  shifted  the  position  of  the  dressing-case. 

"To  the  right  ?  "  inquired  Mr.  Quayle  extending  his  handy 
his  head  a  little  on  one  side,  his  long  neck  directed  forward, 
while  he  regarded  first  his  sister  and  then  the  dressing-case 
with  infuriating  urbanity.  "  No  ?  Let  us  come  to  Hecuba^ 
then.  Let  us  dissemble  no  longer,  but  put  it  plainly.  What, 
oh,  Louisa !  what  are  you  driving  at  in  respect  of  my  very 
dear  friend,  Dickie  Calmady  ?  " 

Now  it  was  unquestionably  most  desirable  for  her  to  keep 
on  the  fair-weather  side  of  Mr.  Quayle  just  then.  Yet  the  flesh 
is  weak.  Lady  Louisa  Barking  could  not  control  a  movement 
of  self-justification.     She  spoke  with  dignity,  severely. 

''  It  is  all  very  well  for  you  to  say  those  sort  of  things^ 
Ludovic " 

"  What  sort  of  things  ?  "  he  inquired  mildly. 

"  But  I  should  be  glad  to  know  what  would  have  become  of 
the  family  by  now,  unless  some  one  had  come  forward  and 
taken  matters  in  hand  ?  Of  course  one  gets  no  thanks  for  it. 
One  never  does  get  any  thanks  for  doing  one's  duty,  however 
wearing  it  is  to  oneself  and  however  much  others  profit.  But 
somebody  had  to  sacrifice  themselves.  Mama  is  unequal  to 
any  exertion.     You  know  what  papa  is " 

"I  do,  I  do,"  murmured  Mr.  Quayle,  raising  his  gaze 
piously  to  the  roof  of  the  railway  carriage. 


282  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

"  If  he  has  one  of  the  boys  to  tramp  over  the  country  with 
him  at  Whitney,  and  one  of  the  girls  to  ride  with  him  in  Lon- 
don, he  is  perfectly  happy  and  content.  He  is  alarmingly  im- 
provident. He  would  prefer  keeping  the  whole  family  at 
home  doing  nothing " 

"  Save  laughing  at  his  jokes.  My  father  craves  the  support 
of  a  sympathetic  audience." 

"  Shotover  is  worse  than  useless." 

"  Except  to  the  guileless  Israelite  he  is.  Absolutely  true, 
Louisa." 

"  Guy  would  never  have  gone  into  the  army  when  he  left 
Eton  unless  I  had  insisted  upon  it.  And  it  was  entirely 
through  the  Barkings'  influence — at  my  representation  of 
course — that  Eddie  got  a  berth  in  that  Liverpool  cotton- 
broker's  business.  I  am  sure  Alicia  is  very  comfortably  mar- 
ried. I  know  George  Winterbotham  is  not  the  least  inter- 
esting, but  he  is  perfectly  gentlemanlike  and  presentable,  and 
so  on,  and  he  makes  her  a  most  devoted  husband.  And  from 
what  Mr.  Barking  heard  the  other  day  at  the  Club  from  some- 
body or  other,  I  forget  who,  but  some  one  connected  with  the 
Government,  you  know,  there  is  every  probability  of  George 
getting  that  permanent  under-secretaryship." 

"  Did  I  not  start  by  declaring  you  had  achieved  numerous 
successes  ? "  Ludovic  inquired.  "  Yet  we  stray  from  the 
point,  Louisa.  For  do  I  not  still  remain  ignorant  of  the  root 
of  your  sudden  interest  in  my  friend  Dickie  Calmady  ?  And 
I  thirst  to  learn  how  you  propose  to  work  him  into  the  trium- 
phant development  of  our  family  fortunes." 

The  proportions  of  Lady  Louisa's  small  mouth  contracted 
still  further  into  an  expression  of  great  decision,  while  she 
glanced  at  the  landscape  reeling  away  from  the  window  of  the 
railway  carriage.  In  the  past  twelve  hours  autumn  had  given 
place  to  winter.  The  bare  hedges  showed  black,  while  the 
fallen  leaves  of  the  hedgerow  trees  formed  unsightly  blotches 
of  sodden  brown  and  purple  upon  the  dirty  green  of  the  pas- 
tures. Over  all  brooded  an  opaque,  gray-brown  sky,  sullen 
and  impenetrable.  Lady  Louisa  saw  all  this.  But  she  was 
one  of  those  persons  happily,  for  themselves,  unaffected  by 
such  abstractions  as  the  aspects  of  nature.  Her  purposes  were 
immediate  and  practical.  She  followed  them  with  praise- 
worthy persistence.     The  landscape  merely  engaged  her  eyes 


LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERCI  283: 

because  she  preferred,  just  now,  looking  out  of  the  window 
to  looking  her  brother  in  the  face. 

"Something  must  be  done  for  the  younger  girls,"  she  an- 
nounced. ^^  I  feel  pretty  confident  about  Emily's  future. 
We  need  not  go  into  that.  Maggie,  if  she  marries  at  all — 
and  she  really  is  very  useful  at  home,  in  looking  after  the 
servants  and  entertaining,  and  so  on — if  she  marries  at  all, 
will  marry  late.  She  has  no  particular  attractions  as  girls  go.  L 
Her  figure  is  too  solid,  and  she  talks  too  much.  But  she  will 
make  a  very  presentable  middle-aged  woman — sensible,  de- 
pendable, an  excellent  menagere.  Certainly  she  had  better 
marry  late." 

"A  mature  clergyman  when  she  is  rising  forty — a  widowed 
bishop,  for  instance.     Yes,  I  approve  that,"  Mr.  Quayle  re- 
joined   reflectively.     "  It    is    well    conceived,    Louisa.     We: 
must  keep  an  eye  on  the  Bench  and  carefully  note  any  episco— 
pal   matrimonial  vacancy.     Bishops   have  a  little  turn,  I  ob- 
serve, for  marrying  somebody  who  is  somebody — specially  en 
secondes  noces^  good    men.     Yes,  it  is  well  thought  of.     With 
careful  steering  we   may  bring  Maggie  to  anchor  in  a  palace 
yet.     Maggie  is  rather  dogmatic,  she  would  make  not  half  a. 
bad  Mrs.  Proudie.     So  she  is  disposed  of,  and  then  ?  " 

For  a  few  seconds  the  lady  held  silent  converse  with  herself. 
At  last  she  addressed  her  companion  in  tones  of  unwonted 
cordiality. 

"You  are  by  far  the  most  sensible  of  the  family,  Ludovic," 
she  began. 

"  And  in  a  family  so  renowned  for  intellect,  so  conspicuous 
for  'parts  and  learning,'  as  Macaulay  puts  it,  that  is  indeed  a 
distinction  !  " — Mr.  Quayle  bowed  slightly  in  his  comfortable 
corner.     "  A  thousand  thanks,  Louisa,"  he  murmured. 

"  I  would  not  breathe  a  syllable  of  this  to  any  of  the  others," 
she  continued.  "  You  know  how  the  girls  chatter.  Alicia,  I 
am  sorry  to  say,  is  as  bad  as  any  of  them.  They  would  dis- 
cuss the  question  without  intermission — simply,  you  know, 
talk  the  whole  thing  to  death." 

"  Poor  thing  ! — Yet,  after  all,  what  thing  ?  "  the  young 
man  inquired  urbanely. 

Lady  Louisa  bit  her  lip.  He  was  very  irritating,  while  she 
was  very  much  in  earnest.  It  was  her  misfortune  usually  to 
be  a  good  deal  in  earnest. 


284  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 


"There  is  Constance,'*  she  remarked,  somewhat  abruptly. 

"  Precisely — there  is  poor,  dear,  innocent,  rather  foolish, 
little  Connie.  It  occurred  to  me  wc  might  be  coming  to 
that." 

In  his  turn  Mr.  Quayle  fell  silent,  and  contemplated  the 
reeling  landscape.  Pasture  had  given  place  to  wide  stretches 
of  dark  moorland  on  either  side  the  railway  line,  with  a  pallor 
of  sour  bog-grasses  in  the  hollows.  The  outlook  was  un- 
cheerful.  Perhaps  it  was  that  which  caused  the  young  man 
to  shake  his  head. 

"  I  recognize  the  brilliancy  of  the  conception,  Louisa.  It 
reflects  credit  upon  your  imagination  and — your  daring,"  he 
said  presently.     "  But  you  won't  be  able  to  work  it." 

"  Pray  why  not  ?  "  almost  snapped  Lady  Louisa. 

Mr.  Quayle  settled  himself  back  in  his  corner  again.  His 
handsome  face  was  all  sweetness,  indulgent  though  argumenta- 
tive.    He  was  nothing,  clearly,  unless  reasonable. 

"  Personally,  I  am  extremely  fond  of  Dickie  Calmady,"  he 
began.  "I  permit  myself — honestly  I  do — moments  of  en- 
thusiasm regarding  him.  I  should  esteem  the  woman  lucky 
who  married  him.  Yet  I  could  imagine  a  prejudice  might 
exist  in  some  minds — minds  of  a  less  emancipated  and  finely 
comprehensive  order  than  yours  and  my  own  of  course — 
against  such  an  alliance.  Take  my  father's  mind,  for  instance 
— and  unhappily  my  father  dotes  on  Connie.  And  he  is  more 
obstinate  than  nineteen  dozen — well,  I  leave  you  to  fill  in  the 
comparison  mentally,  Louisa.  It  might  be  slightly  wanting  in 
filial  respect  to  put  it  into  words." 

Again  he  shook  his  head  in  pensive  solemnity. 

"  I  give  you  credit  for  prodigious  push  and  tenacity,  for  a 
remarkable  capacity  of  generalship,  in  short.  Yet  I  cannot 
disguise  from  myself  the  certainty  that  you  would  never  square 
my  father." 

^^  But  suppose  she  wishes  it  herself.  Papa  would  deny  Con- 
nie nothing,"  the  other  objected.  She  was  obliged  to  raise 
her  voice  to  a  point  of  shrillness,  hardly  compatible  with  the 
dignity  of  the  noble  house  of  P'allowfeild,  double  with  all  the 
gold  of  all  the  Barkings,  for  the  train  was  banging  over  the 
jpoints  and  roaring  between  the  platforms  of  a  local  junction. 
•Mr.  Quayle  jmade  a  deprecating  gesture,  put  his  hands  over 
his  cars,  and  again  gently  shook  his  head,  intimating:  that  no 


LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERCI  285 

person  possessed  either  of  nerves  or  self-respect  could  be  ex- 
pected to  carry  on  a  conversation  under  existing  conditions* 
Lady  Louisa  desisted.  But,  as  soon  as  the  train  passed  into 
the  comparative  quiet  of  the  open  country,  she  took  up  her 
parable  again,  and  took  it  up  in  a  tone  of  authority. 

"  Of  course  I  admit  there  is  something  to  get  over.  It 
would  be  ridiculous  not  to  admit  that.  And  I  am  alw^ays  de- 
termined to  be  perfectly  straightforward.  I  detest  humbug  of 
any  kind.  So  I  do  not  deny  for  a  moment  that  there  is  some- 
thing. Still  it  would  be  a  very  good  marriage  for  Constance^ 
a  very  good  marriage,  indeed.  Even  papa  must  acknowledge 
that.  Money,  position,  age,  everything  of  that  kind,  in  its 
favour.  One  could  not  expect  to  have  all  that  without  some 
make-weight.  I  should  not  regret  it,  for  I  feel  it  might  really 
be  bad  for  Connie  to  have  so  much  without  some  make-weight. 
And  I  remarked  yesterday — I  could  not  help  remarking  it — 
that  she  was  very  much  occupied  about  Sir  Richard  Calmady."" 

"  Connie  is  a  little  goose,"  Mr.  Quayle  permitted  himself 
to  remark,  and  for  once  there  was  quite  a  sour  edge  to  his 
sweetness. 

"  Connie  is  not  quick,  she  is  not  sensitive,"  his  sister  con- 
tinued. "  And,  really,  under  all  the  circumstances,  that  per- 
haps is  just  as  well.  But  she  is  a  good  child,  and  would  be- 
lieve almost  anything  you  told  her.  She  has  an  affectionate 
and  obedient  disposition,  and  she  never  attempts  to  think  for 
herself.  I  don't  believe  it  would  ever  occur  to  her  to  object 
to  his — his  peculiarities,  unless  some  mischievous  person  sug- 
gested it  to  her.  And  then,  as  I  tell  you,  I  remarked  she  was 
very  much  occupied  about  him." 

Once  again  Mr.  Quayle  sought  counsel  of  the  landscape 
which  once  again  had  changed  in  character.  For  here  civili- 
sation began  to  trail  her  skirts  very  visibly,  and  the  edges  of 
those  skirts  were  torn  and  frayed,  notably  unhandsome.  The 
open  moorland  had  given  place  to  flat  market-gardens  and 
leafless  orchards  sloppy  with  wet.  Innumerable  cabbages,  in- 
numerable stunted,  black-branched  apple  and  pear  trees,  ave- 
nues of  dilapidated  pea  and  bean  sticks,  reeled  away  to  right 
and  left.  The  semi-suburban  towns  stretched  forth  long,  rawly- 
red  arms  of  ugly,  little,  jcrry-buiit  streets  and  terraces.  Tall 
chimneys  and  unlovely  gasometers — these  last  showing  as  col- 
lections of  some  monstrous  spawn — rose  against  the  opaque 


286  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

sky,  a  sky  rendered  momentarily  more  opaque,  dirtier  and  more 
dingy,  by  the  masses  of  London  smoke  hanging  along  the  east- 
ern horizon. 

Usually  Ludovic  knew  his  own  mind  clearly  enough.  The 
atmosphere  of  it  was  very  far  from  being  hazy.  Now  that  at- 
mosphere bore  annoying  resemblance  to  the  opacity  obtaining 
overhead  and  along  the  eastern  horizon.  The  young  man's 
sympathies — or  were  they  his  prejudices  ? — had  a  convenient 
habit  of  ranging  themselves  immediately  on  one  side  or  other 
of  any  question  presenting  itself  to  him.  But  in  the  present 
case  they  were  mixed.  They  pulled  both  ways,  and  this 
vexed  him.  For  he  liked  to  suppose  himself  very  ripe,  cyn- 
ical, and  disillusioned,  while,  in  good  truth,  sentiment  had 
niore  than  a  word  to  say  in  most  of  his  opinions  and  decisions. 
Now  sentiment  ruled  him  strongly  and  pushed  him — but,  un- 
fortunately, in  diametrically  opposite  directions.  The  senti- 
ment of  friendship  compelled  him  hitherward.  While  another 
sentiment,  which  he  refused  to  define — he  recognised  it  as 
wholesome,  yet  he  was  a  trifle  ashamed  of  it — compelled  him 
quite  other-where.  He  took  refuge  in  an  adroit  begging  of 
the  question. 

"  After  all  are  you  not  committing  the  fundamental  error  of 
reckoning  without  your  host,  Louisa  ?  '*  he  inquired.  "  Con- 
nie may  be  a  good  deal  occupied  about  Calmady,  but  thereby 
may  only  give  further  proof  of  her  own  silliness.  I  certainly 
<iiscovered  no  particular  sign  of  Calmady  being  occupied  about 
Connie.  He  was  very  much  more  occupied  about  the  fair 
cousin,  Helen  de  Vallorbes,  than  about  any  one  of  us,  my  illus- 
trious self  included,  as  far  as  I  could  see." 

In  her  secret  soul  his  hearer  had  to  own  this  statement  just. 
But  she  kept  the  owning  to  herself,  and,  with  a  rapidity  upon 
which  she  could  not  help  congratulating  herself,  instituted  a 
flanking  movement. 

"  You  hear  all  the  gossip,  Ludovic,"  she  said.  "  Of  course 
it  is  no  good  my  asking  Mr.  Barking  about  that  sort  of  thing. 
Even  if  he  heard  it  he  would  not  remember  it.  His  mind  is 
too  much  occupied.  If  a  woman  marries  a  man  with  large 
political  interests  she  must  just  give  herself  to  them  generously. 
It  is  very  interesting,  and  one  feels,  of  course,  one  is  helping 
:to  make  history.  But  still  one  has  to  sacrifice  something.  I 
:^hear  next  to  nothing  of  what  is  going  on — the  gossip,  I  mean. 


LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERCI  287 

And  so  tell  me,  what  do  you  hear  about  her,  about  Madame 
de  Vallorbes  ? " 

"  At  first  hand  only  that  which  you  must  know  perfectly 
well  yourself,  my  dear  Louisa.  Didn't  you  sit  opposite  to  her 
at  luncheon,  yesterday  ? — That  she  is  a  vastly  good-looking 
and  attractive  woman." 

"  At  second  hand,  then  ?  " 

"  At  second  hand  ?  Oh  !  at  second  hand  I  know  various 
amiable  little  odds  and  ends  such  as  are  commonly  reported 
by  the  uncharitable  and  censorious,"  Ludovic  answered 
mildly.  "  Probably  more  than  half  of  these  little  treasures  are 
pure  fiction,  generated  by  envy,  conceived  by  malice." 

"  Pray,  Ludovic  !  "  his  sister  exclaimed.  But  she  recovered 
herself,  and  added  : — "  you  may  as  well  tell  me  all  the  same. 
I  think,  under  the  circumstances,  it  would  be  better  for  me  ta 
hear." 

''  You  really  wish  to  hear  ?  Well,  I  give  it  you  for  what 
it  is  worth.  I  don't  vouch  for  the  truth  of  a  single  item. 
For  all  we  can  tell,  nice,  kind  friends  may  be  recounting 
kindred  anecdotes  of  Alicia  and  the  blameless  Winterbotham^ 
or  even  of  you,  Louisa,  and  Mr.  Barking." 

Mr.  Quayle  fixed  a  glance  of  surpassing  graciousness  upon 
his  sister  as  he  uttered  these  agreeable  suggestions,  and  fervid 
curiosity  alone  enabled  her  to  resist  a  rejoinder  and  to  main- 
tain a  dignified  silence. 

"  It  is  said — and  this  probably  is  true — that  she  never  cared 
two  straws  for  de  Vallorbes,  but  was  jockeyed  in  the  marriage 
— just  as  you  might  jockey  Constance,  you  know,  Louisa — by 
her  mother,  who  has  the  reputation  of  being  a  somewhat  frisky 
matron  with  a  keen  eye  to  the  main  chance.  She  is  not  quite 
all,  1  understand,  a  tender  heart  could  desire  in  the  way  of  a 
parent.  It  is  further  said  that  la  belle  Helene  makes  the 
dollars  fly  even  more  freely  than  did  de  Vallorbes  in  his  best 
days,  and  he  has  the  credit  of  having  been  something  of  a: 
viveur.  He  knew  not  only  his  Paris,  but  his  Baden-Baden^ 
and  his  Naples,  and  various  other  warm  corners  where  great 
and  good  men  do  commonly  congregate.  It  is  added  that  la 
belle  Helene  already  gives  promise  of  being  playful  in  other 
ways  beside  that  of  expenditure.  And  that  de  Vallorbes  has 
been  heard  to  lament  openly  that  he  is  not  a  native  of  some 
enlightened  country  in  which  the  divorce  court  charitably  in- 


a88  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

tervenes  to  sever  overhard  connubial  knots.  In  short.  It  is 
rumoured  that  de  Vallorbes  is  not  a  conspicuous  example  of 
the  wildly  happy  husband." 

"  In  short,  she  is  not  respec " 

But  the  young  man  held  up  his  hands  and  cried  out  feel- 
ingly :— 

"  Don't,  pray  don't,  my  dear  Louisa.  Let  us  walk  delicately 
as  Agag — my  father's  morning  ministrations  to  the  maids 
again  !  For  how,  as  I  pointed  out  just  now,  do  we  know 
what  insidious  little  tales  may  not  be  in  circulation  regarding 
yourself  and  those  nearest  and  dearest  to  you  ?  " 

Ludovic  Quayle  turned  his  head  and  once  again  looked  out 
of  the  window,  his  beautiful  mouth  visited  by  a  slightly 
malicious  smile.  The  train  was  sliding  onward  above 
crowded,  sordid  courts  and  narrow  alleys,  festering,  as  it 
seemed,  with  a  very  plague  of  poverty-stricken  and  unwhole- 
some humanity.  Here  the  line  runs  parallel  to  the  river — 
sullen  to-day,  blotted  with  black  floats  and  lines  of  grimy 
barges,  which  straining,  smoke-vomiting  steam-tugs  towed 
slowly  against  a  strong  flowing  tide.  On  the  opposite  bank 
the  heavy  masses  of  the  Abbey,  the  long  decorated  facade  and 
towers  of  the  Houses  of  Parliament,  stood  out  ghostly  and 
livid  in  a  gleam  of  frail,  unrelated  sunshine  against  the  murk 
of  the  smoky  sky. 

"  I  should  have  supposed  Sir  Richard  Calmady  was  steady," 
Lady  Louisa  remarked,  inconsequently  and  rather  stiffly. 
Ludovic  really  was  exasperating. 

"  Steady  ?  Oh  !  perfectly.  Poor,  dear  chap,  he  hasn't  had 
much  chance  of  being  anything  else  as  yet." 

"  Still,  of  course.  Lady  Calmady  would  prefer  his  being 
settled.  Clearly  it  would  be  much  better  in  every  way.  All 
things  considered,  he  is  certainly  one  of  the  people  who  should 
marry  young.  And  Connie  would  be  an  excellent  marriage 
for  him,  excellent — thoroughly  suitable,  better,  really,  than  on 
the  face  of  it  he  could  hope  for.  Ludovic,  just  look  out 
please  and  sec  if  the  carriage  is  here.  Pocock  always  loses 
her  head  at  a  terminus,  and  misses  the  men-servants.  Yes, 
there  is  Frederic — with  his  back  to  the  train,  looking  the 
wrong  way,  of  course.      He  really  is  too  stupid." 

Mr.  Quayle,  however,  succeeded  in  attracting  the  footman's 
attention,  and,  assisted  by  that   functionary  and  the  lean  and 


LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERCI  289 

anxious  Pocock — her  arms  full  of  bags  and  umbrellas — con- 
veyed his  sister  out  of  the  railway  carriage  and  into  the  wait- 
ing brougham.  She  graciously  offered  to  put  him  down  at 
his  rooms,  in  St.  James's  Place,  on  her  way  to  the  Barking; 
mansion  in  Albert  Gate,  but  the  young  man  declined  that 
honour. 

"  Good-bye,  Louisa,"  he  said,  leaning  his  elbows  on  the 
open  window  of  the  brougham  and  thereby  presenting  the 
back  view  of  an  irreproachably  cut  overcoat  and  trousers  to 
the  passers-by.  "  I  have  to  thank  you  for  a  most  interesting 
and  instructive  journey.  Your  efforts  to  secure  the  prosperity 
of  the  family  are  wholly  praiseworthy.  I  commend  them.  I 
hav«  a  profound  respect  for  your  generalship.  Still,  pauper 
though  I  am,  I  am  willing  to  lay  you  a  hundred  to  one  in 
golden  guineas  that  you  will  never  square  papa." 

Subsequently  the  young  man  bestowed  himself  in  a  han- 
som, and  rattled  away  in  the  wake  of  the  Barking  equipage 
down  the  objectionably  steep  hill  which  leads  from  the  roar 
and  turmoil  of  the  station  into  the  Waterloo  Bridge  road. 

"  I  might  have  offered  heavier  odds,"  he  said  to  himself^ 
''  for  never,  never  will  she  square  papa." 

And,  not  without  a  light  sense  of  shame,  he  was  conscious 
that  he  made  this  reflection  with  a  measure  of  relief. 


CHAPTER  XI 

CONTAINING     SAMPLES     BOTH     OF     EARTHLY    AND    HEAVENLV 

LOVE 

KATHERINE  stood  in  the  central  space  of  the  great, 
state  bedroom.  It  was  just  upon  midnight,  yet  she 
still  wore  her  jewels  and  her  handsome,  trailing,  black,  velvet 
dress.  She  was  very  tired.  But  that  tiredness  proceeded  less 
from  physical  than  mental  weariness.  This  she  recognised, 
and  foresaw  that  weariness  of  this  character  was  not  likely  ta 
find  relief  and  extinction  within  the  shelter  of  the  curtains  of 
the  stately  bed,  whereon  the  ancient  Persian  legend  of  the 
flight  of  the  Hart  through  the  tangled  Forest  of  This  Life 
was   so  deftly  and  quaintly  embroidered.     For,  unhappily  to- 


ngo  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

night,  the  leopard,  Care,  followed  very  close  behind.  And 
Katherine,  taking  the  ancient  legend  as  very  literally  descrip- 
tive of  her  existing  state  of  mind  feared  that,  should  she  un- 
dress and  seek  the  shelter  of  the  rose-lined  curtains  the  leopard 
would  seek  it  also,  and,  crouching  at  her  feet,  his  evil  yellow 
eyes  would  gaze  into  her  own,  wide  open,  all  through  that 
which  remained  of  the  night.  The  night,  moreover,  was  very 
wild.  A  westerly  gale,  with  now  and  again  tumultuous 
violence  of  rain,  rattled  the  many  panes  of  the  windows, 
wailed  in  every  crevice  of  door  and  casement,  roared  through 
the  mile-long  elm  avenue  below,  and  roared  in  the  chimneys 
above.  The  Prince  of  the  Power  of  the  Air  was  let  loose, 
and  announced  his  presence  as  with  the  shout  of  battle. 
Sleep  was  out  of  the  question  under  present  conditions  and  in 
her  present  humour.  Therefore  Lady  Calmady  had  dismissed 
Clara — now  promoted  to  the  dignified  office  of  lady's-maid — 
and  that  bright-eyed  and  devoted  waiting-woman  had  departed 
reluctant,  almost  in  tears,  protesting  that : — "  it  was  quite  too 
bad,  for  her  ladyship  was  being  regularly  worn  out  with  all 
the  talking  and  company.  And  she,  for  her  part,  should  be 
heartily  glad  when  the  entertaining  v/as  over  and  they  were  all 
comfortably  to  themselves  again." 

Nor  could  Katherine  honestly  assert  that  she  would  be  al- 
together sorry  when  the  hour  struck,  to-morrow,  for  the  de- 
parture of  her  guests.  For  it  appeared  to  her  that,  notwith- 
standing the  courtesy  and  affection  of  her  brother  and  the 
triumphant  charm  of  her  niece,  a  spirit  of  unrest  had  en- 
tered Brockhurst  along  with  their  entry.  Would  that  same 
spirit  depart  along  with  their  departing  ?  She  questioned  it. 
She  was  oppressed  by  a  fear  that  that  spirit  of  unrest  had 
come  to  stay.  And  so  it  was  that  as  she  w^alked  the  length 
and  breadth  of  the  lofty,  white-paneled  room,  for  all  the  rage 
and  fury  of  the  storm  without,  she  still  heard  the  soft  padding 
of  Care,  the  leopard,  close  behind. 

Then  a  singular  desolation  and  sense  of  homelessness  came 
upon  Katherine.  Turn  where  she  would  there  seemed  no 
comfort,  no  escape,  no  sure  promise  of  eventual  rest.  Things 
human  and  material  were  emptied  not  of  joy  only,  but  of  in- 
vitation to  effort.  For  something  had  happened  from  which 
there  was  no  going  back.  A  fair  woman  from  a  far  country 
iad  come  and  looked  upon  her  son,  with  the  inevitable  resultj 


LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERCI  291 

that  youth  had  called  to  youth.  And  though  the  fair  woman 
in  question,  being  already  wedded  wife, — Katherine  was  rather 
pathetically  pure-minded, — eould  not  in  any  dangerously  prac- 
tical manner  steal  away  her  son's  heart,  yet  she  would,  only 
too  probably,  prepare  that  heart  and  awaken  in  it  desires  of 
subsequent  stealing  away  on  the  part  of  some  other  fair 
woman,  as  yet  unknown,  whose  heart  Dickie  would  do  his 
utmost  to  steal  in  exchange.  And  this  filled  her  with  anxiety 
and  far-reaching  fears,  not  only  because  it  was  bitter  to  have 
some  woman  other  than  herself  hold  the  chief  place  in  her 
son's  affections,  but  because  she — as  John  Knott,  even  as. 
Ludovic  Quayle,  though  from  quite  other  causes — could  not 
but  apprehend  possibilities  of  danger,  even  of  disaster,  sur- 
rounding all  question  of  love  and  marriage  in  the  strange  and 
unusual  case  of  Richard  Calmady. 

And  thinking  of  these  things,  her  sensibilities  heightened 
and  intensified  by  fatigue  and  circumstances  of  time  and  place,, 
a  certain  feverishness  possessed  her.  That  bedchamber  of 
many  memories — exquisite  and  tragic — became  intolerable  ta 
her.  She  opened  the  double  doors  and  passed  into  the  Chapel- 
Room  beyond,  the  light  thrown  by  the  tall  wax  candles  set  in 
silver  branches  upon  her  toilet-table,  passing  with  her  through 
the  widely  open  doors  and  faintly  illuminating  the  near  end  of 
the  great  room.  There  was  other  subdued  light  in  the  room 
as  well.  For  a  glowing  mass  of  coal  and  wood  still  remained 
in  the  brass  basket  upon  the  hearth,  and  the  ruddy  brightness 
of  it  touched  the  mouldings  of  the  ceiling,  glowed  on  the 
polished  corners  and  carvings  of  tables,  what-nots,  and  upon 
the  mahogany  frames  of  solid,  Georgian  sofas  and  chairs. 

At  first  sight,  notwithstanding  the  roaring  of  wind  and 
ripping  of  rain  without,  there  seemed  offer  of  comfort  in  this 
calm  and  spacious  place,  the  atmosphere  of  it  sweet  with 
bowls  of  autumn  violets  and  greenhouse-grown  roses.  Kath- 
erine sat  down  in  Richard's  low  armchair  and  gazed  into  the 
crimson  heart  of  the  fire.  She  made  a  valiant  effort  to  put 
away  haunting  fears,  to  resume  her  accustomed  attitude  of 
stoicism,  of  tranquil,  if  slightly  defiant,  courage.  But  Care,, 
the  leopard,  refused  to  be  driven  away.  Surely,  stealthily  he 
had  followed  her  out  of  her  bedchamber  and  now  crouched 
at  her  side,  making  his  presence  felt  so  that  all  illusion  of 
comfort  speedily   fled.     She   knew  that  she  was  alone,  con- 


aga  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY    j 

sciously  and  bitterly  alone,  waking  in  the  midst  of  the  sleep- 
ing house.  No  footstep  would  echo  up  the  stairs,  hot  to  find 
her.  No  voice  would  call  her  name,  in  anxiety  for  her  well- 
being  or  in  desire.  It  seemed  to  Katherine  that  a  desert  lay 
outstretched  about  her  on  every  hand,  while  she  sat  desolate 
with  Care  for  her  sole  companion.  She  recognised  that  her 
existing  isolation  was,  in  a  measure  at  all  events,  the  natural 
consequence  of  her  own  fortitude  and  ability.  She  had  ruled 
with  so  strong  and  discreet  a  hand  that  the  order  she  had  es- 
tablished, the  machinery  she  had  set  agoing,  could  now  keep 
going  without  her.  Hence  her  loneliness.  And  that  loneli- 
ness as  she  sat  by  the  dying  fire,  while  the  wind  raved  with- 
out, was  dreadful  to  her,  peopled  with  phantoms  she  dared  not 
look  upon.  For,  not  only  the  accustomed  burden  of  her 
motherhood  was  upon  her,  but  that  other  unaccustomed  burden 
of  admitted  middle-age.  And  this  other  burden,  which  it  is 
appointed  a  woman  shall  bear  while  her  heart  often  is  still  all 
too  sadly  young,  dragged  her  down.  The  conviction  pressed 
home  on  her  that  for  her  the  splendid  game  was  indeed  over, 
and  that,  for  very  pride's  sake,  she  must  voluntarily  stand 
aside  and  submit  to  rank  herself  with  things  grown  obsolete, 
with  fashions  past  and  out  of  date. 

Katherine  rose  to  her  feet,  filled,  for  the  moment,  by  an 
immense  compassion  for  her  own  womanhood,  by  an  over- 
mastering longing  for  sympathy.  She  was  so  tired  of  the  long 
struggle  with  sorrow,  so  tired  of  her  own  attitude  of  sustained 
courage.  And  now,  when  surely  a  little  respite  and  repose 
might  have  been  granted  her,  it  seemed  that  a  new  order  of 
courage  was  demanded  of  her,  a  courage  passive  rather  than 
active,  a  courage  of  relinquishment  and  self-effacement.  That 
was  a  little  too  much.  For  all  her  valiant  spirit,  she  shrank 
away.     She  grew  weak.     She  could  not  face  it. 

And  so  it  happened  that  to-night — as  once  long  ago,  when 
poor  Richard  siiffered  his  hour  of  mental  and  physical  torment 
at  the  skilful,  yet  relentless  hands  of  Dr.  Knott,  in  the  bed- 
chamber near  by — Katherine's  anguish  and  revolt  found  ex- 
pression in  restless  pacings,  and  those  pacings  brought  her  to 
the  chapel  door.  It  stood  ajar.  Before  the  altar  the  three 
hanging  lamps  showed  each  its  tongue  of  crimson  flame.  A 
whiteness  of  flowers,  set  in  golden  vases  upon  the  re-table, 
was  just  distinguishable.     But  the  delicately  carved  spires  and 


LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERCI  293 

canopies  of  stalls,  the  fair  pictured  saints,  and  figure  of  the 
risen  Christ — His  wounded  feet  shining  like  pearls  upon  the 
azure  floor  of  heaven — in  the  east  window,  were  lost  in  soft^ 
thick,  all-pervading  gloom.  The  place  was  curiously  still,  as 
though  waiting  silently,  in  solemn  and  strained  expectation  for 
the  accomplishment  of  some  mysterious  visitation.  And,  all 
the  while  without,  the  gale  flung  itself  wailing  against  the 
angles  of  the  masonry,  and  the  rain  beat  upon  the  glass  of  the 
high,  narrow  windows  as  with  a  passion  of  despairing  tears. 

For  some  time  Katherine  waited  in  the  doorway,  a  sombre 
figure  in  her  trailing,  velvet  dress.  The  hushed  stillness  of 
the  chapel,  the  confusion  and  clamour  of  the  tempest,  taken 
thus  in  connection,  were  very  telling.  They  exercised  a 
strong  influence  over  her  already  somewhat  exalted  imagina- 
tion. Could  it  be,  she  asked  herself,  that  these  typified  the 
rest  of  the  religious,  and  the  unrest  of  the  secular  life  ?  Julius 
March  would  interpret  the  contrast  they  afforded  in  some 
such  manner  no  doubt.  And  what  if  Julius,  after  all,  were 
right  ?  What  if,  shutting  God  out  of  the  heart,  you  also  shut 
that  heart  out  from  all  peaceful  dwelling-places,  leaving  it 
homeless,  at  the  mercy  of  every  passing  storm  ?  Katherine 
was  bruised  in  spirit.  The  longing  for  some  sure  refuge, 
some  abiding  city  was  dominant  in  her.  The  needs  of  her 
soul,  so  long  ignored  and  repudiated,  asserted  themselves. 
Yes,  what  if  Julius  were  right,  and  if  content  and  happiness 
— the  only  happiness  which  has  in  it  the  grace  of  continuance 
— consisted  in  submission  to,  and  glad  acquiescence  in,  the 
will  of  God  ? 

Thus  did  she  muse,  gazing  questioningly  at  the  whiteness 
of  the  altar  flowers  and  those  steady  tongues  of  flame,  hearing 
the  silence,  as  of  reverent  waiting,  which  dwelt  in  the  place. 
But,  on  the  other  hand,  to  give,  in  this  her  hour  of  weakness, 
that  which  she  had  refused  in  the  hours  of  clear-seeing 
strength ; — to  let  go,  because  she  was  alone  and  the  unloveli- 
ness  of  age  claimed  her,  that  sense  of  bitter  injury  and  in- 
justice which  she  had  hugged  to  her  breast  when  young  and 
still  aware  of  her  empire, — would  not  such  action  be  con- 
temptibly poor  spirited  ?  She  was  no  child  to  be  humbled 
into  confession  by  the  rod,  frightened  into  submission  by  the 
dark.  To  abase  herself,  in  the  hope  of  receiving  spiritual 
consolation,  appeared  to  her  as  an  act  of  disloyalty  to  her  dead 


a94  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

love  and  her  maimed  and  crippled  son.  She  turned  away  with 
a  rather  superb  lift  of  her  beautiful  head,  and  went  back  to  her 
own  bedchamber  again.  She  hardened  herself  in  opposition, 
putting  the  invitations  of  grace  from  her  as  she  might  have 
put  those  of  temptation.  She  would  yield  to  weakness,  to 
feverish  agitations  and  aimless  longings,  no  more.  Whether 
sleep  elected  to  visit  her  or  not,  she  would  undress  and  seek 
her  bed. 

But  hardly  had  she  closed  the  door  and,  standing  before  her 
toilet-table,  began  to  unclasp  the  pearls  from  her  throat  and 
bracelets  from  her  wrists,  than  a  sound,  quite  other  than  agree- 
able or  reassuring,  saluted  her  ears  from  close  by.  It  pro- 
ceeded from  the  room  next  door,  now  unoccupied,  since  Rich- 
ard, some  five  or  six  years  ago,  jealous  of  the  dignity  of  his 
youth,  had  petitioned  to  be  permitted  to  remove  himself  and 
his  possessions  to  the  suite  of  rooms  immediately  below.  This 
comprised  the  Gun-Room,  a  bed  and  dressing-room,  and  a 
fourth  room  connecting  with  the  offices,  which  came  in  handy 
for  his  valet.  Since  his  decline  upon  this  more  commodious 
apartment,  the  old  nursery  had  stood  vacant.  Katherine 
could  not  find  it  in  her  heart  to  touch  it.  It  was  furnished 
now  as  in  Dickie's  childish  days,  when,  night  and  morning, 
she  had  visited  it  to  make  sure  of  her  darling's  health  and 
safety. 

And  it  was  in  this  shrine  of  tender  recollections  that  dis- 
quieting sounds  now  arose.  Hard  claws  rattled  upon  the 
boarded  spaces  of  the  floor.  Some  creature  snored  and  panted 
against  the  bottom  of  the  door,  pushed  it  with  so  heavy  a 
weight  that  the  panels  creaked,  flung  itself  down  uneasily, 
then  moved  to  and  fro  again,  with  that  harsh  rattling  of  claws. 
The  image  of  Care,  the  leopard,  as  embroidered  upon  the 
curtains  of  her  bed,  was  so  present  to  Katherine's  imagination 
to-night  that,  for  a  moment,  she  lost  her  hold  on  probability 
and  common  sense.  It  appeared  to  her  that  the  anxieties  and 
perturbations  which  oppressed  her  had  taken  on  bodily  form, 
and,  in  the  shape  of  a  devouring  beast,  besieged  her  chamber 
door.  The  conception  was  grisly.  Both  mind  and  body  being 
rather  overstrained,  it  filled  her  with  something  approaching 
panic.  No  one  was  within  call.  To  rouse  her  brother,  or 
Julius,  she  must  make  a  tour  of  half  the  house.  Again  the 
creature  pushed  against  the  creaking  panels,  and,  then,  pant' 


LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERCI  295 

ing  and  snoring,  began  ripping  away  the  matting  from  the 
door-sill. 

The  terror  of  the  unknown  is,  after  all,  greater  than  that 
of  the  known.  It  was  improbable,  though  the  hour  was  late 
and  the  night  wild,  that  savage  beasts  or  cares  incarnate  should 
actually  be  in  possession  of  Dickie's  disused  nursery.  Kath- 
erine  braced  herself  and  turned  the  handle.  Still  the  vision 
disclosed  by  the  opening  door  was  at  first  sight  monstrous 
enough.  A  moving  mass  of  dirty  white,  low  down  against 
the  encircling  darkness,  bandy  legs,  and  great  grinning  mouth. 
The  bull-dog  stood  up,  whining,  fawning  upon  her,  thrusting 
his  heavy  head  into  her  hand. 

"  Why  Camp,  good  old  friend,  what  brings  you  here  I 
Are  you,  too,  homeless  to-night  ?  But  why  have  you  deserted 
your  master  ?  " 

And  then  Lady  Calmady's  panic  fears  took  on  another 
aspect.  Far  from  being  allayed  they  were  increased.  An 
apprehension  of  something  actively  evil  abroad  in  the  great, 
sleeping  house  assailed  her.  She  trembled  from  head  to  foot. 
And  yet,  even  while  she  shrank  and  trembled,  her  courage 
reawoke.  For  she  perceived  that  as  yet  she  need  not  rank 
herself  wholly  among  fashions  passed  and  things  grown  obso- 
lete. She  had  her  place  and  value  still.  She  was  wanted,  she 
was  called  for — that  she  knew — though  by  whom  wanted  and 
for  what  purpose  she,  as  yet,  knew  not. 

The  bull-dog,  meanwhile,  his  heavy  head  carried  low,  his 
crooked  tail  drooping,  trotted  slowly  away  into  the  darkness 
and  then  trotted  back.  He  squatted  upon  his  haunches,  look- 
ing up  with  anxious,  bloodshot  eyes.  He  trotted  away  again, 
and  again  returned  and  stood  waiting,  his  whole  aspect  elo- 
quent in  its  dumb  appeal.  He  implored  her  to  follow,  and 
Katherine,  fetching  one  of  the  silver  candlesticks  from  her 
dressing-table,  obeyed. 

She  followed  her  ugly,  faithful  guide  across  the  vacant  dis- 
used nursery,  and  on  down  the  uncarpeted  turning  staircase 
which  opens  into  the  square  lobby  outside  the  Gun-Room. 
The  diamond  panes  of  the  staircase  windows  chattered  in  their 
leaded  frames,  and  the  wind  shrieked  in  the  spouts,  and  angles, 
and  carved  stonework,  of  the  inner  courtyard  as  she  passed. 
The  gale  was  at  its  height,  loud  and  insistent.  Yet  the  many- 
toned    violence    of  it    seemed   to   bear  strange  and  intimate 


a96  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

relation — as  that  of  a  great  orchestra  to  a  single  dominant 
human  voice — to  the  subtle,  evil  influence  w^hich  she  felt  to 
be  at  large  vi^ithin  the  sleeping  house.  And  so,  without  paus- 
ing to  consider  the  w^isdom  of  her  action,  pushed  by  the  con- 
viction that  something  of  profound  import  was  taking  place, 
and  that  some  one,  or  something,  must  be  saved  by  her  from 
threatening  danger,  Katherine  threw  open  the  Gun-Room  door. 

The  shout  of  the  storm  seemed  far  away.  This  place  was 
quick  with  stillness  too,  with  the  hush  of  waiting  for  the 
accomplishment  of  some  mysterious  event  or  visitation,  even 
as  the  dark  chapel  up-stairs  had  been.  Only  here  moving 
effect  of  soft,  brilliant  light,  of  caressing  warmth,  of  vague, 
insidious  fragrance  met  her.  Katherine  Calmady  had  only 
Jcnown  passion  in  its  purest  and  most  legitimate  form.  It  had 
been  for  her,  innocent  of  all  grossness,  or  suggestion  of 
degradation,  fair  and  lovely  and  natural,  revelation  of  highest 
and  most  enchanting  secrets.  But  having  once  known  it  in  its 
fulness,  she  could  not  fail  to  recognise  its  presence,  even 
though  it  wore  a  diabolic,  rather  than  angelic  face.  That 
passion  met  her  now,  exultant,  effulgent,  along  with  that  light 
and  heat  and  fragrance,  she  did  not  for  an  instant  doubt. 
And  the  splendour  of  its  near  neighbourhood  turned  her 
faint  with  dread  and  with  poignant  memories.  She  paused 
jupon  the  threshold,  steadying  herself  with  one  hand  against 
the  cold,  stone  jamb  of  the  arched  doorway,  while  in  the  other 
she  held  the  massive  candlestick  and  its  flickering,  draught- 
driven  lights. 

A  mist  was  before  her  eyes,  a  singing  in  her  ears,  so  that 
she  had  much  ado  to  see  clearly  and  reckon  justly  with  that 
which  she  did  see.  Helen  de  Vallorbes,  clothed  in  a  flowing, 
yet  clinging,  silken  garment  of  turquoise,  shot  with  blue  purple 
and  shimmering  glaucous  green — a  garment  in  colour  such  as 
that  with  which  the  waves  of  Adriatic  might  have  clothed  the 
rosy  limbs  of  new-born  Aphrodite,  as  she  rose  from  the  cool, 
translucent  sea-deeps — knelt  upon  the  tiger-skin  before  the 
dancing  fire.  Her  hands  grasped  the  two  arms  of  Richard's 
chair.  She  leaned  down  right  across  it,  the  lines  and  curves 
of  her  beautiful  body  discernible  under  her  delicate  draperies. 
The  long,  open  sleeves  of  her  dress  fell  away  from  her  out- 
stretched arms,  showing  them  in  their  completeness  from  wrist 
to  shoulder.     Her  head  was  thrown  back,  so  that  her  rounded 


I 


LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERCI  297 

throat  stood  out,  and  the  pure  line  of  her  lower  jaw  was 
salient.  Her  eyes  were  half  closed,  while  all  the  mass  of  her 
honey-coloured  hair  was  gathered  low  down  on  the  nape  of  her 
neck  into  a  net  of  golden  thread.  A  golden,  netted  girdle  was 
knotted  loosely  a., out  her  loins,  the  tasseled  ends  of  it  drag- 
ging upon  the  floor.  She  wore  no  jewels,  nor  were  they 
needed,  for  the  loveliness  of  her  person,  discovered  rather  than 
concealed  by  those  changeful  sea-blue  draperies,  was  already 
dangerously  potent. 

All  this  Katherine  saw — a  radiant  vision  of  youth,  an 
incarnation,  not  of  care  and  haunting  fears,  but  of  pleasure 
and  haunting  delights.  And  she  saw  more  than  this.  For  in 
the  depths  of  that  long,  low  armchair  Richard  sat,  stiffly 
erect,  his  face  dead  white,  thin,  and  strained — Richard,  as  she 
had  never  beheld  him  before,  though  she  knew  the  face  well 
enough.  It  was  his  father's  face  as  she  had  seen  it  on  her  mar- 
riage night,  and  on  his  death  night  too,  when  his  fingers  had 
been  clasped  about  her  throat  to  the  point  of  strangulation. 
Katherine  dared  look  no  longer.  Her  heart  stood  still. 
Shame  and  anger  took  her,  and  along  with  these  an  immense 
nostalgia  for  that  which  had  once  been  and  was  not.  Her 
instinct  was  of  flight.  But  Camp  trotted  forward,  growling, 
and  squatted  between  the  pedestals  of  the  library-table,  his  red 
eyes  blinking  sullenly  in  the  square  shadow.  Involuntarily 
Katherine  followed  him  part  way  across  the  room. 

Richard  looked  full  at  his  cousin,  absorbed,  rigid,  an  amaze- 
ment of  question  in  his  eyes.  Not  a  muscle  of  his  face  moved. 
But  Madame  de  Vallorbes'  absorption  was  less  complete.  She 
started  slightly  and  half  turned  her  head. 

"Ah!  there  is  that  dog  again,"  she  said.  "What  has 
brought  him  back  ?     He  hates  me." 

"  Damn  the  dog  !  "  Richard  exclaimed,  hoarsely  under  his 
breath.     Then  he  said  : — "  Helen,  Helen,  you  know " 

But  Madame  de  Vallorbes  had  turned  her  head  yet  further, 
and  her  arched  eyelids  opened  quite  wide  for  once,  while  she 
smiled  a  little,  her  lips  parting  and  revealing  her  pretty  teeth 
tightly  set. 

"Ah!  the  advent  of  the  bull-dog  explains  itself,"  she  ex- 
claimed.    "Here  is  Aunt  Katherine  herself!" 

Slowly,  and  with  an  inimitable  grace,  she  rose  to  her  feet. 
Her  long,  winged  sleeves  floated  back  into  place,  covering  her 


298  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

bare  arms.  Her  composure  was  astonishing,  even  to  herself. 
Yet  her  breath  came  a  trifle  quick  as  she  contemplated  Lady 
Calmadv  with  the  same  enigmatic  smile,  her  chin  carried  high 
— the  nnest  suggestion  of  challenge  and  insolence  in  it — her 
eyes  still  unusually  wide  open  and  startlingly  bright. 

"  Richard  holds  a  little  court  to-night/'  she  continued  airily, 
"  thanks  to  the  storm.  You  also  have  come  to  seek  the  pro- 
tection of  his  presence  it  appears.  Aunt  Katherine.  Indeed,  I 
am  not  surprised,  for  you  certainly  brew  very  wild  weather  at 
Brockhurst,  at  times." 

Something  in  the  young  lady's  bearing  had  restored  Kather- 
ine's  self-control. 

"The  wind  is  going  down,"  she  replied  calmly.  "The 
storm  need  not  alarm  you,  or  keep  you  watching  any  longer, 
Helen." 

'^  Ah  !  pardon  me — you  know  you  are  accustomed  to  these 
tempests,"  the  younger  woman  rejoined.  "  To  me  it  still 
sounds  more  than  sufficiently  violent." 

"  Yes,  but  merely  on  this  side  of  the  house,  where  Richard's 
and  my  rooms  are  situated.  The  wind  has  shifted,  and  I  be- 
lieve on  your  side  you  will  suffer  no  further  disturbance.  You 
will  find  it  quite  quiet.  Then,  moreover,  you  have  to  rise 
early  to-morrow — or  rather  to-day.  You  have  a  long  journey 
before  you  and  should  secure  all  the  rest  you  can." 

Madame  de  Vallorbes  gathered  her  silken  draperies  about 
her  absently.  For  a  moment  she  looked  down  at  the  tiger- 
skin,  then  back  at  Lady  Calmady. 

"  Ah  yes  !  "  she  said,  "  it  is  thoughtful  of  you  to  remind  me 
of  that.  To-day  I  start  on  my  homeward  journey.  It  should 
give  me  very  much  pleasure,  should  it  not  ?  But — do  not  be 
shocked.  Aunt  Katherine — I  confess  I  am  not  altogether  en- 
raptured at  the  prospect.  I  have  been  too  happy,  too  kindly 
treated,  here  at  Brockhurst,  for  it  to  be  other  than  a  sorrow  to 
me  to  depart." 

She  turned  to  Richard,  her  expression  serious,  intimate,  ap- 
pealing. Then  she  shook  back  her  fair  head,  and  as  though 
in  obedience  to  an  irresistible  movement  of  tenderness,  stooped 
down  swiftly  over  him — seeming  to  drown  him  in  the  shim- 
mering waves  of  some  azure,  and  thin,  clear  green,  and  royal, 
blue-purple  sea — while  she  kissed  him  full  and  daringly  upon 
the  mouth. 


LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERCI  299 

"  Good- night,  good-bye,  dear  Dickie,"  she  said.  "Yes, 
good-bye — for  I  ahnost  hope  I  may  not  see  you  in  the  morn- 
ing. It  would  be  a  little  chilly  and  inadequate,  any  other  fare- 
well after  this.  I  am  grateful  to  you. — And  remember,  I  too 
am  among  those  who,  to  their  sorrow,  never  forget.'* 

She  approached  Lady  Calmady,  her  manner  natural,  un- 
abashed, playful  even,  and  gay. 

"  See,  I  am  ready  to  go  to  bed  like  a  good  child.  Aunt 
Katherine,"  she  said,  "  supported  by  your  assurance  that  my 
side  of  the  house  is  no  longer  rendered  terrific  by  wind  and 
rain.  But — I  am  so  distressed  to  trouble  you — but  all  the 
lamps  are  out,  and  I  am  none  too  sure  of  my  way.  It  would 
be  a  rather  tragic  ending  to  my  happy  visit  if  I  incontinently 
lost  myself  and  wandered  till  dawn,  disconsolate,  up  and  down 
the  passages  and  stairways  of  Richard's  magnificent  house.  I 
might  even  wander  in  here  by  mistake  again,  and  that  would 
be  unpardonably  indiscreet,  wouldn't  it  ?  So,  will  you  light 
me  to  my  own  quarters,  Aunt  Katherine  ?  Thank  you — how 
charmingly  kind  and  sweet  you  are  !  " 

As  she  spoke  Madame  de  Vallorbes  moved  lightly  away  and 
passed  on  to  the  lobby,  the  heels  of  her  pretty,  cloth-of-gold  slip- 
pers ringing  quite  sharply  on  the  gray,  stone  quarries  without. 
And,  even  as  a  little  while  back  she  had  followed  the  heavy- 
headed  and  ungainly  bull-dog,  so  now  Lady  Calmady,  in  her 
trailing,  black,  velvet  dress,  silver  candlestick  in  hand,  followed 
this  radiant,  fleet-footed  creature,  whose  every  movement  was 
eloquent  of  youth  and  health  and  an  almost  prodigal  joy  of 
living.  Neither  woman  spoke  as  they  crossed  the  lobby,  and 
passed  the  pierced  and  arcaded  stone  screen  which  divides  the 
outer  from  the  inner  hall.  Now  and  again  the  flickering  can- 
dle-light glinted  on  the  younger  woman's  girdle  or  the  net 
which  controlled  the  soft  masses  of  her  honey-coloured  hair. 
Now  and  again  a  draught  taking  the  folds  of  her  silken  raiment 
blew  it  hither  and  thither,  disclosing  her  beautiful  arms  or 
quick-moving  slippered  feet.  She  was  clothed  with  splendour 
of  the  sea,  crowned,  and  shod,  and  girt  about  the  loins,  with 
gold.  And  she  fled  on  silently,  till  the  wide,  shallow-stepped 
stairway,  leading  up  to  the  rooms  she  occupied,  was  reached. 
There,  for  a  moment,  she  paused. 

"  Pray  come  no  further,"  she  said,  and  went  on  rapidly  up 
the   flight.     On   the   landing   she  stopped,  a  dimly  discerned 


300  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

figure,  blue  and  gold  against  the  dim  whiteness  of  high  pan- 
eled walls,  moulded  ceiling,  stairway,  and  long  descending 
balustrade. 

"  I  have  arrived  !  "  she  cried,  and  her  clear  voice  took 
strange  inflections  of  mockery  and  laughter.  "  I  have  arrived  ! 
I  am  perfectly  secure  now  and  safe.  Let  us  hope  all  other 
inmates  of  Brockhurst  are  equally  so  this  stormy  night.  A 
thousand  thanks,  dear  Aunt  Katherine,  for  your  guidance,  and 
a  thousand  apologies  for  bringing  you  so  far.  Now  let  me 
trouble  you  no  longer." 

The  Gun-Room  Katherine  found  just  as  she  had  left  it, 
save  that  Camp  stood  on  the  tiger-skin  before  the  fire,  his 
fore-paws  and  his  great,  grinning  muzzle  resting  on  the  arm 
of  Richard's  chair.  Camp  whined  a  little.  Mechanically  the 
young  man  raised  his  hand  and  pulled  the  dog's  long,  drooping 
ears.  His  face  was  still  dead  white,  and  there  were  lines  un- 
der his  eyes  and  about  the  corners  of  his  mouth,  as  of  one  who 
tries  to  subdue  expression  of  physical  pain.  He  looked 
straight  at  Lady  Calmady. 

"  Ah  !  "  he  said,  "  so  you  have  come  back  !  You  observe 
I  have  changed  partners  !  " 

And  again  he  pulled  the  dog's  ears,  while  it  appeared  to 
his  listener  that  his  voice  curiously  echoed  that  other  voice 
which  had  so  lately  addressed  and  dismissed  her,  taking  on 
inflections  of  mockery.  But  as  she  nerved  herself  to  an- 
swer, he  continued,  hastily  : — 

"  I  want  nothing,  dear  mother,  nothing  in  the  world.  Pray 
don't  concern  yourself  any  more  about  me  to-night.  Haven't 
I  Camp  for  company  ?  Lamps  ?  Oh  !  I  can  put  them  out 
perfectly  well  myself.  You  were  right,  of  course,  perfectly 
right,  to  come  if  you  were  anxious  about  me.  But  now  surely 
you  are  satisfied  ?  " 

Suddenly  Richard  bowed  his  head,  putting  both  hands  over 
his  eyes. 

"  Only  now,  mother,  if  you  love  me,  go,"  he  said,  with  a 
great  sob  in  his  voice.  "  For  God's  sake  go,  and  leave  me  to 
myself." 

But  after  sleepless  hours,  in  the  melancholy,  blear  dawn  of 
the  November  day,  Katherine  lying,  face  downwards,  within 
the  shelter  of  the  embroidered  curtains  of  the  state  bed^  made 
her  submission  at  last  and  prayed. 


LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERCI  301 


(C 


I  am  helpless,  oh,  Father  Almighty  !  I  have  neither  wit 
nor  understanding,  nor  strength.  Have  mercy,  lest  my  reason 
depart  from  me.  I  have  sinned,  for  years  I  have  sinned,  set- 
ting my  will,  my  judgment,  my  righteousness  against  Thine. 
Take  me,  forgive  me,  teach  me.  I  bring  nothing.  I  ask 
everything.  I  am  empty.  Fill  me  with  Thyself,  even  as 
with  water  one  fills  an  empty  cup.  Give  me  the  courage 
of  patience  instead  of  the  courage  of  battle.  Give  me  the 
courage  of  meekness  in  place  of  the  courage  of  pride." 


BOOK    IV 

A  SLIP  BETWIXT  CUP  AND  LIP 


CHAPTER  I 

LADY  LOUISA  BARKING  TRACES  THE  FINGER  OF  PROVIDENCE 

'  I  ^HE  spirit  of  unrest,  which  had  entered  Brockhurst  in  the 
dim  October  weather,  along  with  certain  guests,  did  not 
— Lady  Calmady  had  foreseen  as  much — leave  with  their 
leaving.  It  remained  a  constant  quantity.  Further,  it  engen- 
dered events  very  far  away  from  and,  at  first  sight,  wholly  at 
variance  with  those  which  had  accompanied  its  advent. 

For  example.  Lady  Louisa  Barking,  passing  through 
Lowndes  Square  one  bleak,  March  morning  on  her  way  from 
Albert  Gate  to  do  a  little  quiet,  shopping  in  Sloane  Street,  ob- 
served that  the  Calmadys'  house — situated  at  the  corner  of  the 

square  and  of Street — was  given  over  to  a  small  army  of 

work-people.  During  Richard's  minority  it  had  been  let  for 
a  term  of  years  to  Sir  Reginald  Aldham,  of  Aldham  Revel 
in  Midlandshire.  Since  Dickie's  coming  of  age  it  had  stood 
empty,  pending  a  migration  of  the  Brockhurst  establishment, 
which  migration  had,  in  point  of  fact,  never  yet  taken  place. 
But  now,  as  Lady  Louisa,  walking  with  a  firm  and  distin- 
guished tread  along  the  gray,  wind-swept  pavements,  remarked^ 
the  house  was  in  process  of  redecoration,  of  painting  within 
and  without.  And,  looking  on  these  things.  Lady  Louisa's 
soul  received  very  sensible  comfort.  She  was  extremely  tena- 
cious of  purpose.  And,  in  respect  of  one  purpose  at  least, 
heaven  had  not  seen  fit,  during  the  last  four  or  five  months,  to 
«milc  upon   her.     Superstitious  persons  might  have  regarded 

^02 


A  SLIP  BETWIXT  CUP  AND  LIP  303 

this  fact  as  a  warning.  Lady  Louisa,  however,  merely  re- 
garded it  as  an  oversight.  Now  at  last,  so  it  appeared  to  her, 
heaven  had  awakened  to  a  consciousness  of  its  delinquencies, 
with  the  satisfactory  result  that  her  own  commendable  patience 
touched  on  reasonable  hope  of  reward.  And  this  was  the 
more  agreeable  and  comforting  to  her  because  the  Quayle  family 
affairs  were  not,  it  must  be  owned,  at  their  brightest  and  best 
just  at  present.  Clouds  lowered  on  the  family  horizon.  For 
some  weeks  she  had  felt  the  situation  called  for  effective  action 
on  her  part.  But  then,  how  to  act  most  effectively  she  knew 
not.  Now  the  needed  opportunity  stared  her  in  the  face, 
along  with  those  high  ladders  and  scaffolding  poles  surround- 
ing the  Calmady  mansion.  She  decided,  there  and  then,  to 
take  the  field ;  but  to  take  it  discreetly,  to  effect  a  turning 
movement,  not  attempt  a  front  attack. 

So,  on  her  return  to  Albert  Gate,  after  the  completion  of 
her  morning  shopping,  she  employed  the  half  hour  before 
luncheon  in  writing  an  affectionate,  sisterly  letter  to  Ludovic 
Quayle.  That  accomplished,  young  gentleman  happened,  as 
she  was  aware,  to  be  staying  at  Brockhurst.  She  asked  his 
opinion — in  confidence — on  the  present  very  uncomfortable 
condition  of  the  family  fortunes,  declaring  how  implicitly  she 
trusted  his  good  sense  and  respected  his  judgment.  Then, 
passing  adroitly  to  less  burning  questions,  she  ended  thus  — 

"  Pray  let  Lady  Calmady  know  how  really  delighted  every^ 
body  is  to  hear  she  and  Sir  Richard  will  be  up  this  season.  I 
do  trust,  as  I  am  such  a  near  neighbour,  that  if  there  is  anything 
I  can  do  for  her,  either  now,  or  later  when  they  are  settling, 
she  will  not  hesitate  to  let  me  know.  It  would  be  such  a 
sincere  pleasure  to  me.  Mr,  Barking  is  too  busy  with  tiresome, 
parliamentary  committees  to  be  able  to  allow  himself  more 
than  a  week  at  Easter.  I  should  be  thankful  for  a  longer  rest, 
for  I  am  feeling  dreadfully  fagged.  But  you  know  how  con- 
scientious he  always  is ;  and  of  course  one  must  pay  a  certain 
price  for  the  confidence  the  leaders  of  one's  party  repose  in 
one.  So  do  tell  Lady  Calmady  we  are  quite  sure  to  be  back 
immediately  after  Easter." 

Reading  which  sentences  Mr.  Ouayle  permitted  himself  a 
fine  smile  on  more  than  one  count. 

"  Louisa  reminds  me  of  the  sweet  little  poem  of  *  Bruce 
and  the  Spider,'"   he  said  to  himself,     "She  displays  heroic 


304  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

persistence.  Her  methods  are  a  trifle  crude  though.  To 
provoke  statements  by  making  them  is  but  a  primitive  form  of 
diplomacy.  Yet  why  be  hard  upon  Louisa  ?  Like  my  poor^ 
dear  father,  she,  more  often  than  not,  means  well." 

It  followed  that  some  few  days  later,  on  his  return  to  Whit- 
ney, Ludovic  indited  a  voluminous  letter  to  his  sister,  in  his  very 
best  style.  "  It  is  rather  a  waste,"  he  reflected  regretfully. 
"  She  will  miss  the  neatest  points.  The  happiest  turns  of 
phrase  will  be  lost  upon  Louisa !  "  To  recoup  himself  for 
which  subjective  loss  the  young  man  amused  himself  by  giving 
a  very  alarmist  account  of  certain  matters,  though  he  was  con- 
strained to  admit  the  pleasing  fact  that  Sir  Richard  and  Lady 
Calmady  really  had  it  in  contemplation  to  go  up  to  town 
somewhere  about  Easter. 

And,  truth  to  tell,  the  main  subject  of  Mr.  Quayle's  letter 
could  hardly  be  otherwise  than  disquieting,  for  it  was  undenia- 
ble that  Lord  Shotover's  debts  were  causing  both  himself  and 
others  serious  embarrassment  at  this  period.  There  was 
nothing  new  in  this,  that  young  nobleman's  indebtedness  be- 
ing a  permanent  factor  in  his  family's  financial  situation* 
This  spring  his  indebtedness  had  passed  from  the  chronic  to  the 
acute  stage,  that  was  all.  With  the  consequence  that  it  be- 
came evident  Lord  Shotover's  debts  must  be  paid,  or  his  re- 
lations must  submit  to  the  annoyance  of  seeing  him  pass 
through  the  Bankruptcy  Court.  Which  of  these  objectiona- 
ble alternatives  was  least  objectionable  Lord  Fallowfeild  still 
stood  in  doubt,  when,  in  obedience  to  the  parental  summons, 
the  young  man  reached  Whitney.  Lord  Fallowfeild  had 
whipped  himself  up  into  a  laudable  heat  of  righteous  indigna- 
tion before  the  arrival  of  the  prodigal.  Yet  he  contrived  to 
be  out  when  the  dog-cart  conveying  the  said  prodigal,  and  Mr. 
Decies  of  the  loist  Lancers — a  friend  of  Guy  Quayle,  home 
on  leave  from  India,  whence  he  brought  news  of  his  fellow- 
subaltern — actually  drove  up  to  the  door.  When,  pushed 
thereto  by  an  accusing  conscience,  he  did  at  last  come  in.  Lord 
Fallowfeild  easily  persuaded  himself  that  there  really  was  not 
time  before  dinner  for  the  momentous  conversation.  More- 
over, being  very  full  of  the  milk  of  human  kindness,  he 
found  it  infinitely  more  agreeable  to  hear  the  praises  of  the 
absent  son,  Guy,  than  to  fall  foul  of  the  present  son,  Shotover. 
So  that  it  was  not  till  quite  late  that  night,  by  which  time  he  m 


A  SLIP  BETWIXT  CUP  AND  LIP  305 

was  slightly  sleepy,  while  his  anger  had  sensibly  evaporated, 
that  the  interview  did,  actually,  take  place. 

"  Now  then,  Shotover,  march  off  to  the  place  of  execution,'* 
Ludovic  Quayle  said  sweetly,  as  he  picked  up  his  bedroom 
candlestick.  "  It  was  a  deep  and  subtle  thought  that  of 
bringing  down  Decies.  Only,  query,  did  you  think  of  it,  or 
was  it  just  a  bit  of  your  usual  luck  ?  " 

Lord  Shotover  smiled  rather  ruefully  upon  his  prosperous, 
and,  it  may  be  added,  slightly  parsimonious,  younger  brother. 

"Well,  I  don't  deny  it  did  occur  to  me  it  might  work,"  he 
admitted.  "And  after  all,  you  know,  one  mercy  is  there's  no 
real  vice  about  his  dear  old  lordship." 

Lord  Fallowfeild  fidgeted  about  the  library,  his  expression 
that  of  a  well-nourished  and  healthy,  but  rather  fretful 
infant. 

"  Oh  !  ah  ! — well — so  here  you  are,  Shotover,"  he  said. 
*'  Unpleasant  business  this  of  yours — uncommonly  disagree- 
able business  for  both  of  us." 

"  Deuced  unpleasant  business,"  the  younger  man  echoed 
heartily.  He  closely  resembled  his  father  in  looks,  save  that 
he  was  clean  shaven  and  of  a  lighter  build.  Both  father  and 
son  had  the  same  slight  lisp  in  speaking.  "  Deuced  unpleas- 
ant," he  repeated.     "  Nobody  can  feel  that  more  than  I  do." 

"  Can't  they  though,"  said  Lord  Fallowfeild,  with  a  charm- 
ingly innocent  air  of  surprise.  "  There,  sit  down,  Shotover, 
won't  you  ?  It's  a  painful  thing  to  do,  but  we've  got  to  talk 
it  over,  I  suppose." 

"  Well,  of  course,  if  you're  kind  enough  to  give  me  the 
time,  you  know, — that's  rather  what  I  came  down  here  for." 

"  So  you  did  though,"  the  elder  man  returned,  brightening 
as  though  making  an  illuminating  discovery.  Then,  fearing 
he  was  forgetting  his  part  and  becoming  amiable  too  rapidly, 
he  made  a  gallant  effort  to  whip  up  his  somnolent  indignation. 
*'It's  very  distressing  to  me  to  put  it  so  plainly,  but  in  my 
opinion  it's  a  disgraceful  business." 

"  Oh  !  I  give  you  my  word  I  know  it,"  Lord  Shotover 
replied,  with  most  disarming  candour.  His  father  affected, 
with  difficulty,  not  to  hear  the  remark. 

"  It  doesn't  do  for  a  man  in  your  position  to  be  owing 
money  all  over  the  country.  It  brings  the  aristocracy  into 
contempt  with  the  shop-keeping   class.     They're  always  on 


3o6  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

the  lookout  for  the  shortcomings  of  their  superiors,  those  pco 
pie.     And  they  do  pay  their  debts,  you  see/' 

"  They've  always  got  such  a  thundering  lot  of  money/* 
Lord  Shotover  put  in.  "  Don't  know  how  they'd  contrive 
to  spend  it  unless  they  did  pay  their  debts." 

"  Oh  !  ah  ! — yes "     His    father   hesitated.     It   struck 

him  Shotover  was  a  reasonable  fellow,  very  reasonable,  and  he 
took  the  whole  matter  in  a  very  proper  spirit.  In  short,  it 
was  not  easy  to  blow  up  Shotover.  Lord  Fallowfeild  thrust 
his  hands  far  down  into  his  trouser  pockets  and  turned  side- 
ways in  the  great,  leather-covered  chair. 

"I'm  not  narrow-minded  or  prejudiced,"  he  began.  "I 
always  have  kept  on  civil  terms  with  those  sort  of  people  and 
always  will.  Courtesy  is  an  obligation  on  the  part  of  a  gen- 
tleman and  a  Christian.  I'd  as  soon  be  rude  to  my  tailor  as 
eat  with  my  knife.  But  a  man  must  respect  his  own  rank  or 
others  won't  respect  it,  especially  in  these  nasty,  radical,  level- 
ing times.  You  must  stand  by  your  class.  There's  a  vulgar 
proverb  about  the  bird  that  fouls  its  own  nest,  you  know. 
Well,  I  never  did  that.  I've  always  stood  by  my  own  class. 
Helped  my  poor  brother  Archibald — ^you  can't  remember  him 
— weren't  born  at  the  time — to  run  away  with  Lady  Jane 
Bateman.  Low,  common  fellow  Bateman.  I  never  liked 
Bateman.     She  left  Ludovic  all  that  money,  you  know '* 

"  Wish  to  goodness  she'd  left  it  to  me,"  murmured  Lord 
Shotover. 

"  Eh  ?  "  inquired  his  father.  Then  he  fell  into  a  morali- 
sing vein.  "  Nasty,  disreputable  things  elopements.  I  never 
did  approve  of  elopements.  Leave  other  men's  wives  alone, 
Shotover." 

The  younger  man's  mouth  worked  a  little. 

"  The  nuisance  is  sometimes  they  won't  leave  you  alone." 

Lord  Fallowfeild  gazed  at  him  a  moment,  very  genially. 

"  Oh  !  ah  ! — well — I  suppose  they  won't,"  he  said,  and  he 
chuckled.  "Anyhow  I  stood  by  your  poor  Uncle  Archibald. 
He  was  my  brother  of  course,  and  she  was  a  second  cousin  of 
your  mother's,  so  I  felt  bound  to.  And  I  saw  them  across 
the  Channel  and  into  the  Paris  train.  Dreadfully  bad  cross- 
mg  that  night  I  remember,  no  private  cabins  to  be  had,  and 
Lady  Jane  was  dreadfully  ill.  Never  take  your  wife  to  sea  on 
your    honeymoon,  Shotover.      It's    too   great  a  risk.      That 


A  SLIP  BETWIXT  CUP  AND  LIP  307 

business  cost  me  a  lot  of  money  one  way  and  another,  and  let 
me  in  for  a  most  painful  scene  with  Bateman  afterwards. 
But,  as  I  say,  you're  bound  to  stand  by  your  own  class. 
That'll  be  my  only  reason  for  helping  you,  you  understand, 
Shotover,  if  I  do  help  you." 

"  And  I  am  sure  I  hope  you  will." — The  young  man  rose 
and  stood  with  his  back  to  the  fire  and  his  hands  under  his 
coat-tails.  He  stooped  a  little,  looking  down  pensively  at  the 
hearth-rug  between  his  feet.  His  clothes — not  yet  paid  for, 
or  likely  to  be — claimed  admiration,  so  did  the  length  of  his 
legs  and  the  neatness  of  his  narrow  hips. 

'^  I  can  only  assure  you  I  shall  be  most  awfully  grateful  if 
you  do  help  me,"  he  said  quietly.  "  I  don't  pretend  to  de- 
serve it — but  that  doesn't  lessen  gratitude — rather  the  other 
way,  don't  you  know.     I  shall  never  forget  it." 

"  Won't  you  though  ?  " 

And  for  the  life  of  him  Lord  Fallowfeild  could  not  help 
beaming  upon  this  handsome  prodigal.  "  Uncommonly  high- 
bred looking  fellow,  Shotover,"  he  said  to  himself.  "Don't 
wonder  women  run  after  him.  Uncommonly  high  bred,  and 
shows  very  nice  feeling  too." 

And  then  the  kindly  and  simple  gentleman  drew  himself  up 
with  a  mental  jerk,  remembering  that  he  was  there  to  curse 
rather  than  to  bless.     He  fidgeted  violently. 

"  Not  that  I  have  actually  made  up  my  mind  to  help  you 
yet,"  he  went  on.  "  I  am  very  much  inclined  to  cast  you 
adrift.  It  distresses  me  to  put  it  to  you  so  plainly,  but  you 
are  disgracefully  extravagant,  you  know,  Shotover." 

'^  Oh  !   I  know,"  the  young  man  admitted. 

"You're  a  selfish  fellow." — Lord  Fallowfeild  became  re- 
lentless. "Yes,  it's  extremely  painful  to  me  to  say  it  to  you, 
but  you  are  downright  selfish.  And  that,  in  the  long  run, 
comes  uncommonly  hard  on  your  sisters.  Good  girls,  your 
sisters.  Never  given  your  mother  or  me  any  trouble,  your 
sisters.  But  money  has  to  come  from  somewhere,  and  each 
time  I  pay  your  debts  I  have  to  cut  down  your  sisters' 
portions." 

"Yes,  I  know,  and  that's  what's  made  me  so  infernally  un- 
willing to  come  to  you  about  my  affairs,"  Lord  Shotover  said, 
in  tones  of  perfectly  genuine  regret. 

"  Is  it  though  ?  "  his  father  commented.     "  Good  fellow  at 


3o8  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

heart,"  he  added  to  himself.  "  Displays  very  proper  feeling. 
Always  was  a  good-hearted  fellow." 

"  I  can  only  tell  you  I've  been  awfully  wretched  about  it 
for  the  last  three  months." 

"  Have  you  though  ? "  said  Lord  Fallowfeild,  with 
sympathy. 

"  I  got  just  about  as  low  as  I  well  could.  I  felt  I  was 
nothing  but  a  nuisance  and  encumbrance.  It  was  beastly  to 
think  of  fleecing  the  girls,  don't  you  know.  I  came  precious 
near  cutting  my  throat — only  that  seemed  rather  a  dirty  way 
of  getting  out  of  it  all." 

^'  So  it  is — poor  boy — quite  right.  Nasty  mean  way  of 
shirking  your  responsibilities.  Quite  agree  with  you.  I  have 
never  had  any  opinion  of  a  man  who  cut  his  throat.  Never 
mention  such  a  thing,  Shotover."  He  blew  his  nose  reso- 
nantly.— "  Never  talk  of  such  a  thing,"  he  repeated.  "  And — 
poor  boy — I — I'll  pay  your  debts.  Only  I  tell  you  this  really 
is  the  last  time.  There  must  be  no  misunderstanding  about 
that.  You  must  reform,  Shotover,  if  it's  only  on  account  of 
your  sisters.  I  don't  want  to  take  an  unfair  advantage  of  you 
in  alluding  to  your  sisters.  Only  you  must  understand  clearly 
this  is  the  last  time.  You  see  it's  becoming  too  frequent.  I 
don't  want  to  press  the  case  unduly  against  you,  but  you  rec- 
ollect— I'm  sure  you  do — I  paid  your  debts  in  fifty-eight,  and 
again  in  sixty-two,  or  sixty-three,  was  it?  Yes,  it  must  have 
been  sixty-three,  because  that  was  the  year  my  poor  friend 
Tom  Henniker  died.  Good  fellow  Henniker — I  missed 
Henniker.  And  they  wanted  mc  to  take  over  the  hounds. 
Nice  fellow  in  the  hunting-field,  Henniker.  Never  saw  him 
lose  his  temper  but  once,  and  that  was  when  Image  rode  over 
the  hounds  on  the  edge  of  Talepenny  Wood." 

"  Rather  coarse  sort  of  brute.  Image,"  put  in  Lord  Shotover. 

'^  And  Henniker  had  such  an  excellent  manner  with  the 
farmers,  genial  and  cheery,  very  cheery  at  times  and  yet  with- 
out any  loss  of  dignity.  Great  test  of  a  man's  breeding  that, 
being  cheery  without  loss  of  dignity.  Now  my  poor  friend, 
Henniker — oh  !  ah  !  yes,  where  was  I  though  ?  Your  debts 
now,  Shotover.  Yes,  it  must  have  been  sixty-three,  because 
they  all  wanted  me  to  succeed  him  as  master,  and  I  had  to 
tell  them  I  could  not  afi:'ord  it,  so  it  must  have  been  just  after 
I  cleared  you." 


A  SLIP  BETWIXT  CUP  AND  LIP  309 

He  looked  at  his  erring  son  with  the  most  engaging  air  of 
appeal  and  remonstrance. 

"  Really  it  won't  do,  Shotover,"  he  repeated.  "  You  must 
reform.  It's  becoming  too  frequent.  You'd  better  travel  for 
a  time.  That's  the  proper  thing  for  a  man  in  your  position 
to  do  when  he's  in  low  water.  Not  scuttle,  of  course.  I 
wouldn't  on  any  account  have  you  scuttle.  But,  three  weeks 
or  a  month  hence  when  things  are  getting  into  shape,  just 
travel  for  a  time.  I'll  arrange  it  all  for  you.  Only  never 
talk  of  cutting  your  throat  again.  And  you  quite  understand 
this  is  positively  the  last  time.  I  am  very  much  in  earnest, 
my  dear  boy,  nothing  will  move  me.  This  settlement  is  final. 
And  we'll  just  run  up  quietly  to  town  to-morrow  and  have  a 
talk  with  my  lawyers.  Fox  and  Goteway.  Very  civil  and  ac- 
commodating fellow,  Goteway — he  may  be  able  to  make  some 
suggestions.  Very  nice,  confidential- mannered  person,  Gote- 
way. Knows  how  to  hold  his  tongue  and  doesn't  ask  un- 
necessary questions — useful  man,  Goteway " 

Which  things  coming  to  the  knowledge  of  Lady  Louisa 
Barking  moved  her  at  once  to  wrath,  and  to  deepened  convic- 
tion that  the  moment  for  decisive  action  had  arrived.  It  ap- 
peared to  her  that  her  father  had  put  himself  out  of  court. 
His  weakness  regarding  his  eldest  son  had  practically  delivered 
him  into  her  hand.  She  congratulated  herself  upon  the  good 
which  is  thus  beneficently  permitted  to  spring  out  of  evil. 
Yet  while  recognising  that  a  just  Providence  sometimes,  at  all 
events,  overrules  human  folly  to  the  production  of  happy  re- 
sults, she  was  by  no  means  disposed  to  spare  the  mortal  whose 
individual  foolishness  had  given  the  divine  wisdom  its  oppor- 
tunity. Therefore  when,  some  few  days  later.  Lord  Fallow- 
feild  called  on  her,  after  a  third  or  fourth  interview  with 
Messrs.  Fox  and  Goteway — beaming,  expansive,  from  the 
sense  of  a  merciful  action  accomplished — she  received  him  in 
a  distinctly  repressive  manner.  The  great,  white  and  gold 
drawing-rooms  in  Albert  Gate  were  not  more  frigid  or  un- 
bending than  the  bearing  of  their  mistress  as  she  suffered  her 
father's  embrace.  And  that  amiable  nobleman,  notwithstand- 
ing his  large  frame  and  exalted  social  position,  felt  himself 
shiver  inwardly  in  the  presence  of  his  daughter,  even  as  he 
could  remember  shivering  when,  as  a  small  schoolboy,  he  had 
been  summoned  to  the  dread  presence  of  the  headmaster. 


310  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 


Very  good  rooms  these  of  yours,  Louisa,"  he  began  hastily. 
Always  have  admired  these  rooms.  Capital  space  for  enter- 
taining. Barking  was  quite  right  to  secure  the  house  as  soon 
as  it  was  in  the  market.  I  told  him  at  the  time  he  would 
never  regret  it.*' 

Lady  Louisa  did  not  answer,  but  called  after  the  retreating 
footman,  who  had  just  brought  in  a  stately  and  limited  tea- 
tray,  much  silver  and  little  food : — "  I  am  not  at  home, 
William." 

Then,  as  she  put  small  and  accurate  measures  of  tea  into  a 
massive  teapot,  she  added  severely  : — "  What  is  all  this  I  hear 
about  Shotover,  papa  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  ah  !  yes — poor  Shotover.  Came  up  to  town  to- 
gether again  to-day.  Good-hearted  fellow,  your  brother  Shot- 
over,  but  thoughtless.  However  I  have  had  a  most  satisfac- 
tory talk  with  my  men  of  business.  Fox  and  Goteway.  I 
know  Barking  does  not  think  much  of  Fox  and  Goteway. 
Wanted  me  to  go  to  his  own  lawyers,  Hodges  and  Banquet. 
But  if  any  one  serves  you  conscientiously  you  should  not 
leave  them.  It's  against  my  principles  to  turn  off  those  who 
serve  me  conscientiously.  I  told  Barking  so  at  the  time,  I 
remember.  It  came  out  of  the  business  about  your  settle- 
ments, vvasn't  it — or  the  last  time  I  paid  Shotover' s "      He 

cleared  his  throat  hurriedly.  "  I  see  the  Calmadys'  house  is 
being  done  up,"  he  continued.  '^  Nice  young  fellow, 
Calmady.  But  I  never  can  help  feeling  a  certain  awkward- 
ness with  him.  Takes  you  up  rather  short  in  conversation 
too  sometimes.  Terribly  distressing  thing  his  deformity  and 
all  that,  both  for  himself  and  Lady  Calmady.  Hope,  perhaps, 
she  doesn't  feel  it  as  some  women  would  though — tactful 
woman.  Lady  Calmady,  and  very  good  woman  of  business. 
Still,  never  feel  quite  at  my  ease  with  Lady  Calmady.  Can't 
help  wondering  how  they'll  do  in  London,  you  know.  Rather 
difficult  thing  his  going  about  much  with  that " 

Lady  Louisa  held  out  a  small  teacup.  Her  high  penetra- 
ting voice  asserted  itself  resolutely  against  her  father's  kindly, 
stumbling  chatter,  as  she  asked : — 

"  Is  it  true  you  are  not  coming  up  from  Whitney  this  sea- 
son ? " 

"  Oh  ! — tea — yes,  thank  you  very  much,  my  dear.  No — - 
well,  I  think  possibly  we  may  not  come  up  this  year.     Gote- 


A  SLIP  BETWIXT  CUP  AND  LIP  311 

way  believes  he  has  heard  of  a  very  eligible  tenant  for  the 
Belgrave  Square  house,  very  eligible.  And  so,  nothing  actu- 
ally decided  yet,  but  I  think  very  possibly  we  may  not  come 

He  spoke  apologetically,  regarding  his  daughter,  over  the 
small  teacup,  v^^ith  an  expression  of  entreaty.  Every  feature 
of  his  handsome,  innocent  countenance  begged  her  not  to  deal 
harshly  with  him.     But  Lady  Louisa  remained  obdurate. 

"  Shotover*s  conduct  is  becoming  a  positive  scartdal,"  she 
said. 

"  Not  conduct,  my  dear — no,  not  conduct,  only  money," 
protested  Lord  Fallowfeild. 

"  If  money  is  not  conduct  I  really  don't  know  what  is," 
retorted  his  daughter.  "  I  do  not  pretend  to  go  in  for  such 
fine  distinctions.  In  any  case  Mr.  Barking  heard  the  most 
shocking  rumours  at  his  club  the  other  day." 

"  Did  he  though  ?  "  ejaculated  Lord  Fallowfeild. 

"He  was  too  considerate  to  tell  me  anything  very  definite, 
but  he  felt  that,  going  out  and  seeing  everybody  as  of  course  I 
have  to,  it  was  only  right  I  should  have  some  hint  of  what 
was  being  said.  Every  one  is  talking  about  Shotover.  You 
can  imagine  how  perfectly  intolerable  it  is  for  me  to  feel  that 
my  brother's  debts  are  being  canvassed  in  this  sort  of  way." 

"  I  am  very  sorry  there  should  be  any  gossip,"  Lord  Fallow- 
feild said  humbly.  "  Nasty  thing  gossip — lies,  too,  mostly,  all 
of  it.     Nasty,  low,  unprofitable  thing  gossip." 

"And,  of  course,  your  all  not  coming  up  will  give  colour  to 
it." 

"  Will  it  though  ?  I  never  thought  of  that.  You  always 
see  straight  through  things,  Louisa.  You  have  by  far  the 
best  head  in  the  family,  except  Ludovic — uncommonly  clever 
fellow  Ludovic.  Wonder  if  I  had  better  talk  it  all  over  with 
Ludovic.  If  you  and  he  agree  in  thinking  our  not  coming  up 
will  make  more  talk,  why,  if  only  on  Shotover's  account, 
I " 

But  this  was  not  in  the  least  the  turn  which  his  daughter 
desired  the  conversation  to  take. 

"  Pray  remember  you  have  other  children  besides  Shotover, 
papa !  "  she  said  hastily.  "  And  for  every  one's  sake  run  no 
further  risk  of  impoverishing  yourself.  It  is  obvious  that  you 
»iust  save  where  you  can.     If  there  is  the  chance  of  a  good 


312  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

let  for  the  Belgrave  Square  house,  it  would  be  madness  to  re- 
fuse it.  And,  after  all,  you  do  not  really  care  about  London. 
If  there  are  any  important  debates  in  the  Lords,  you  can  al- 
ways  come  up  for  a  night  or  so.  It  does  not  matter  about 
you." 

"  Oh !  doesn't  it  though  ?  '*  Lord  Fallowfeild  put  in  quite 
humbly  and  gently. 

"  And  mama  would  always  rather  stay  on  at  Whitney. 
Only  it  must  not  appear  as  if  we  were  the  least  uncomfortable 
at  meeting  people.  I  shall  make  it  a  point  to  go  everywhere. 
I  shall  be  dreadfully  fagged,  of  course,  but  I  feel  it  a  duty  to 
all  of  you  to  do  so.  And  I  should  like  the  girls  to  go  out  too. 
People  must  not  suppose  they  have  no  gowns  to  their  backs. 
Maggie  and  Emily  have  had  several  seasons.  I  am  less  wor- 
ried about  them.  But  Connie  must  be  seen.  She  is  looking 
extremely  pretty." 

"Isn't  she  though?"  Lord  Fallowfeild  chimed  in,  bright- 
ening. The  picture  of  those  reportedly  gownless  backs  had 
depressed  him  abominably. 

"  Yes,  and  she  must  have  every  advantage.  I  have  quite 
decided  that.  She  must  come  up  to  me  at  once.  I  shall  write 
to  mama  and  point  out  to  her  how  necessary  it  is  that  one  of 
the  girls,  at  least,  should  be  very  much  en  evidence  this  year. 
And  I  am  most  anxious  it  should  be  Connie.  As  I  undertake 
all  the  fatigue  and  responsibility  I  feel  I  have  a  right  of  choice. 
I  will  see  that  she  is  properly  dressed.  I  undertake  every- 
thing. Now,  papa,  if  you  are  going  down  by  the  6:io  train 
you  ought  to  start.     Will  you  have  a  hansom  ?  " 

Then,  as  she  shook  hands  with  him,  and  presented  an  un- 
responsive cheek  to  the  paternal  lips,  Lady  Louisa  clinched 
the  matter. 

"  I  may  consider  it  quite  settled,  then,  about  Constance  ?  " 
she  said.  "  I  mentioned  it  to  Mr.  Barking  yesterday,  and  we 
agreed  it  ought  to  be  done  even  if  it  entailed  a  little  incon- 
venience and  expense.  It  is  not  right  to  be  indifferent  to  ap- 
pearances. The  other  two  girls  can  come  up  for  a  little  while 
later.  Alicia  must  help.  Of  course  there  is  not  much  room 
in  that  wretched,  little  Chelsea  house  of  hers,  but  George 
Winterbotham  can  turn  out  of  his  dressing-room.  Alicia 
must  exert  herself  for  once.  And,  papa,  Connie  need  not 
bring  a  maid.     Those  country  girls  from  Whitney  don't  always 


A  SLIP  BETWIXT  CUP  AND  LIP  31J 

fit  In  quite  well  with  the  upper  servants,  and  yet  there  is  a 
difficulty  about  keeping  them  out  of  the  housekeeper's  room. 
I  will  provide  a  maid  for  her.  Pll  write  to  mama  about 
everything  to-morrow.  And,  papa,  I  do  beg  you  will  dis- 
courage Shotover  from  coming  here,  for  really  I  would  much 
rather  not  see  him  at  present.  Good-bye.  Pray  start  at  once. 
You  have  barely  time  to  get  to  Waterloo." 

And  so  Lord  Fallowfeild  started,  a  little  flustered,  a  little 
crestfallen,  on  his  homeward  journey. 

"  Able  woman,  Louisa,"  he  said  to  himself.  "  Uncommonly 
clear-sighted  woman,  Louisa.  But  a  trifle  hard.  Wonder  if 
Barking  ever  feels  that,  now  ?  Not  very  sensitive  man.  Bark- 
ing, though.  Suppose  that  hardness  in  Louisa  comes  of  her 
having  no  children.  Always  plenty  of  children  in  our  family 
— except  my  poor  brother  Archibald  and  Lady  Jane,  they  had 
no  children.  Yet  somebody  told  me  she'd  had  one  by  Bate- 
man,  which  died.  Never  understood  about  that.  Capital 
thing  for  Ludovic  she  never  did  have  any  by  Archibald.  But 
it's  always  curious  to  me  Louisa  should  have  no  children. 
Shouldn't  have  expected  that  somehow  of  Barking  and  Louisa. 
Sets  her  more  free,  of  course,  in  regard  to  her  sisters.  Very 
thoughtful  for  her  sisters,  Louisa.  I  suppose  she  must  have 
Connie.  Nuisance  all  this  gossip  about  Shotover.  Pretty 
child,  Connie — best  looking  of  the  lot.  People  say  she's  like 
me.  Wonderfully  pretty  child,  Connie.  That  young  fellow 
Decies  thinks  so  too,  or  I'm  very  much  mistaken.  Very  much 
attracted  by  Connie.  Fine  young  fellow,  Decies — comfort  to 
hear  of  Guy  from  him.  Suppose  she  must  go  up  to  Louisa. 
Gentlemanlike  fellow,  Decies.  I  shouldn't  care  to  part  with 
Connie " 

And  then,  his  reflections  becoming  increasingly  interjectional 
as  the  train  trundled  away  southwestward,  Lord  Fallowfeild 
leaned  back  in  the  corner  of  the  railway  carriage  and  fell  very 
fast  asleep. 


314  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 


CHAPTER  II 

TELLING    HOW    VANITY    FAIR    MADE    ACQUAINTANCE    WITH 
RICHARD    CALMADY 


nr> 


HERE  was  no  refusing  belief  to  the  fact.  The  old,  clois- 
tered life  at  Brockhurst,  for  good  or  evil,  was  broken 
up.  Katherine  Calmady  recognised  that  another  stage  had 
been  reached  on  the  relentless  journey,  that  new  prospects 
opened,  new  horizons  invited  her  anxious  gaze.  She  recog- 
nised also  that  all  which  had  been  was  dead,  according  to  its 
existing  form,  and  should  receive  burial,  silent,  somewhat  sor- 
rowful, yet  not  without  hope  of  eventual  resurrection  in  regard 
to  the  nobler  part  of  it.  The  fair  coloured  petals  of  the 
flower  fall  away  from  the  maturing  fruit,  the  fruit  rots  to  set 
free  the  seed.  Yet  the  vital  principle  remains,  life  lives  on, 
•though  the  material  clothing  of  it  change.  And,  therefore, 
Katherine — an  upspringing  of  patience  and  chastened  forti- 
tude within  her,  the  result  of  her  reconciliation  to  the  Divine 
Light  and  resignation  of  herself  to  its  indwelling — set  herself, 
not  to  arrest  the  falling  of  the  flower,  but  to  help  the  ripening 
of  the  seed.  If  the  old  garments  were  out  of  date,  too  straight 
and  narrow  for  her  child's  growth,  then  let  others  be  found 
him.  She  did  not  wait  to  have  him  ask,  she  offered,  and  that 
without  hint  of  reproach  or  of  unwillingness. 

Yet  so  to  offer  cost  her  not  a  little.  For  it  was  by  no  means 
€asy  to  sink  her  natural  pride,  and  go  forth  smiling  with  this 
son  of  hers,  at  once  beautiful  and  hideous  in  person,  for  all  the 
world  to  see.  Something  of  personal  heroism  is  demanded  of 
whoso  prescribes  heroic  remedies,  if  those  remedies  are  to  suc- 
ceed. At  night,  alone  in  the  darkness,  Katherine,  suddenly 
awaking,  would  be  haunted  by  perception  of  the  curious 
glances,  and  curious  comments,  which  must  of  necessity  at- 
tend Richard  through  all  the  brilliant  pageant  of  the  London 
season.  How  would  he  bear  it  ?  And  then — self-distrust 
laying  fearful  hands  upon  her — how  would  she  bear  it,  too  ? 
Would  her  late  acquired  serenity  of  soul  depart,  her  faith  in 


A  SLIP  BETWIXT  CUP  AND  LIP  315 

the  gracious  purposes  of  Almighty  God  suffer  eclipse  ?  Would 
she  fall  back  into  her  former  condition  of  black  anger  and  re- 
volt ?  She  prayed  not.  So  long  as  these  evils  did  not  descend 
upon  her,  she  could  bear  the  rest  well  enough.  For,  could 
she  but  keep  her  faith,  Katherine  was  beginning  to  regard  all 
other  suffering  which  might  be  in  store  for  her  as  a  negligible 
quantity.  With  her  healthy  body,  and  wholesome  memories  of 
a  great  and  perfect  human  love,  it  was  almost  impossible  that 
she  should  adopt  a  morbid  and  self-torturing  attitude.  Yet 
any  religious  ideal,  worth  the  name,  will  always  have  in  it  ai> 
ascetic  element.  And  that  element  was  so  far  present  with- 
her  that  personal  suffering  had  come  to  bear  a  not  wholly  un- 
lovely aspect.  She  had  ceased  to  gird  against  it.  So  long  as. 
Richard  was  amused  and  fairly  content,  so  long  as  the  evil 
which  had  been  abroad  in  Brockhurst  House,  that  stormy  au- 
tumn night,  could  be  frustrated,  and  the  estrangement  between 
herself  and  Richard, — unacknowledged,  yet  sensibly  present, — 
which  that  evil  had  begotten,  might  be  lessened,  she  cared  lit- 
tle what  sacrifices  she  made,  what  fatigue,  exertion,  even  pain, 
she  might  be  called  on  to  endure.  An  enthusiasm  of  self-sur- 
render animated  her. 

During  the  last  five  months,  slowly  and  with  stumbling  feet„ 
yet  very  surely,  she  had  carried  her  life  and  the  burden  of  it 
up  to  a  higher  plane.  And,  from  that  more  elevated  stand- 
point, she  saw  both  past  events  and  existing  relationships  in- 
perspective,  according  to  their  just  and  permanent  values* 
Only  one  object,  one  person,  refused  to  range  itself,  and  stood 
out  from  the  otherwise  calm,  if  pensive,  landscape  as  a  threat- 
ening danger,  a  monument  of  things  wicked  and  fearful. 
Katherine  tried  to  turn  her  eyes  from  that  object,  for  it  pro- 
voked in  her  a  great  hatred,  a  burning  indignation,  sadly  at 
variance  with  the  saintly  ideals  which  had  so  captivated  her 
mind  and  heart.  Katherine  remained — always  would  remain, 
happily  for  others — very  much  a  woman.  And,  as  woman 
and  mother,  she  could  not  but  hate  that  other  woman  who 
had,  as  she  feared,  come  very  near  seducing  her  son. 

Therefore  very  various  causes  combined  to  reconcile  her  to 
the  coming  adventure.  Indeed  she  set  forth  on  it  with  so 
cheerful  a  countenance,  that  Richard,  while  charmed,  was  also 
a  trifle  surprised  by  the  alacrity  with  which  she  embraced  it. 
He  regarded  her  somewhat  critically^  questioning  whether  his 


3i6  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

mother  was  of  a  more  worldly  and  light-minded  disposition 
than  he  had  heretofore  supposed. 

There  had  been  some  talk  of  Julius  March  joining  the  con- 
templated exodus.     But  he  had  declined,  smiling  rather  sadly. 

"  No,  no,'*  he  said.  "  To  go  would  be  a  mistake  and  a 
weakly  selfish  one  on  my  part.  I  have  long  ceased  to  be  a 
man  of  cities,  and  am  best  employed,  and  indeed  am  most  at 
.my  ease,  herding  my  few  sheep  here  in  the  wilderness.  I  am 
Tpart  and  parcel  of  just  all  that  which  we  have  agreed  it  is  wise 
you  shall  leave  behind  you  for  a  while.  My  presence  would 
lessen  the  thoroughness  of  the  change  of  scene  and  of  thought. 
You  take  up  a  way  of  life  which  was  familiar  to  you  years 
.ago.  The  habits  of  it  will  soon  come  back.  I  have  never 
known  them.  I  should  be  a  hindrance,  rather  than  a  help. 
No,  I  will  wait  and  keep  the  lamps  burning  before  the  altar, 
and  the  fire  burning  upon  the  hearth  until — and,  please  God, 
it  may  be  in  peace,  crowned  with  good  fortune — you  both 
-come  back." 

But  the  adventure,  fairly  embarked  on,  displayed  quite  other 
characteristics — ^^as  is  the  way  with  such  skittish  folk — than 
Katherine  had  anticipated.  Against  possibilities  of  mortifica- 
tion, against  possibilities  of  covert  laughter  and  the  pointing 
fingers  of  the  crowd,  she  had  steeled  herself.  But  it  had  not 
occurred  to  her  that  both  Richard's  trial  and  her  own  might 
take  the  form  of  an  exuberant  and  slightly  vulgar  popularity, 
and  that,  far  from  being  shoved  aside  into  the  gutter,  the 
young  man  might  be  hoisted,  with  general  acclamation,  on  to 
the  very  throne  of  Vanity  Fair. 

The  Brockhurst  establishment  .noved  up  to  town  at  the  be- 
ginning of  April.  And  by  the  end  of  the  month.  Sir  Richard 
Calmady,  his  wealth,  his  house,  his  horses,  his  dinners,  his 
mother's  gracious  beauty,  and  a  certain  mystery  which  sur- 
rounded him,  came  to  be  in  every  one's  mouth.  A  new  star 
had  arisen  in  the  social  firmament,  and  all  and  sundry  gathered 
to  observe  the  repotted  brightness  of  its  shining.  Rich, 
young,  good-looking,  well-connected,  and  strangely  unfortu- 
nate, here  indeed  was  a  novel  and  telling  attraction  among  the 
somewhat  fly-blown  shows  of  Vanity  Fair!  Many-tongued 
rumour  was  busy  with  Dickie's  name,  his  possessions  and  per- 
:Sonality.  The  legend  of  the  man — a  thing  often  so  very 
other  than  the  man  himself — grew,  Jonah's  gourd-like,  in  wild 


A  SLIP  BETWIXT  CUP  AND  LIP  317 

luxuriance.  All  those  many  persons  who  had  known  Lady 
Calmady  before  her  retirement  from  the  world,  hastened  to  re-- 
new  acquaintance  with  her.  While  a  larger,  and  it  may  be 
added  less  distinguished,  section  of  society,  greedy  of  intimacy 
with  whoso,  or  whatsoever,  might  represent  the  fashion  of  the 
hour,  crowded  upon  their  heels.  Invitations  showered  down 
thick  as  snowflakes  in  January.  To  get  Sir  Richard  and  Lady 
Calmady  was  to  secure  the  success  of  your  entertainment, 
whatever  that  entertainment  might  be — to  secure  it  the  more 
certainly  because  the  two  persons  in  question  exercised  a  rather- 
severe  process  of  selection,  and  were  by  no  means  to  be  had 
for  the  asking. 

All  these  things  Ludovic  Quayle  noted,  in  a  spirit  which  he 
flattered  himself  was  cynical,  but  which  was,  in  point  of  fact^ 
rather  anxiously  affectionate.  It  had  occurred  to  him  that  this, 
sudden  and  unlooked-for  popularity  might  turn  Richard's  head 
a  little,  and  develop  in  him  a  morbid  self-love,  that  vanite  de 
monstre  not  uncommon  to  persons  disgraced  by  nature.  He 
had  feared  Richard  might  begin  to  plume  himself — as  is  the 
way  of  such  persons — less  upon  the  charming  qualities  and. 
gifts  which  he  possessed  in  common  with  many  other  charm- 
ing persons,  than  upon  those  deplorable  peculiarities  which 
differentiated  him  from  them.  And  it  was  with  a  sincerity  of 
relief,  of  which  he  felt  a  trifle  ashamed,  that,  as  time  went  on^ 
Mr.  Quayle  found  himself  unable  to  trace  any  such  tendency, 
that  he  observed  his  friend's  wholesome  pride  and  carefulness 
to  avoid  all  exposure  of  his  deformity.  Richard  would  drive 
anywhere,  and  to  any  festivity,  where  driving  was  possible. 
He  would  go  to  the  theatre  and  opera.  He  would  dine  at  a 
few  houses,  and  entertain  largely  at  his  own  house.  But  he 
would  not  put  foot  to  ground  in  the  presence  of  the  many 
women  who  courted  him,  or  in  that  of  the  many  men  who 
treated  him  with  rather  embarrassed  kmdness  and  courtesy  to 
his  face  and  spoke  of  him  with  pitying  reserve  behind  his 
back. 

Other  persons,  besides  Mr.  Quayle,  watched  Richard 
Calmady's  social  successes  with  interest.  Among  them  was 
Honoria  St.  Quentin.  That  young  lady  had  been  spending; 
some  weeks  with  Sir  Reginald  and  Lady  Aldham  in  Midland- 
shire,  and  had  now  accompanied  them  up  to  town.  Lady 
Aldham's  health  was  indifferent,  confining  her  often  for  days- 


3iS  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

Jtogether  to  the  sofa  and  a  darkened  room.  Her  husband, 
meanwhile,  possessed  a  craving  for  agreeable  feminine  society, 
Jiable  to  be  gratified  in  a  somewhat  errant  manner  abroad,  un- 
less gratified  in  a  discreet  manner  at  home.  So  Honoria  had 
taken  over  the  duty,  for  friendship's  sake,  of  keeping  the  well- 
favoured,  genial,  middle-aged  gentleman  innocently  amused, 
'To  Honoria,  at  this  period,  no  experience  came  amiss.  For 
the  past  three  years,  since  the  death  of  her  godmother.  Lady 
Tobermory,  and  her  resultant  access  of  fortune,  she  had  wan- 
tiered  from  place  to  place,  seeing  life,  now  in  stately  English 
country  houses,  now  among  the  overtaxed,  under-fed  women- 
workers  of  Whitechapel  and  Soho,  now  in  some  obscure 
Italian  village  among  the  folds  of  the  purple  Apennines.  Now 
.•she  would  patronise  a  middle-class  British  lodging-house, 
along  with  some  girl  friend  richer  in  talent  than  in  pence, 
in  some  seaside  town.  Now  she  would  fancy  the  stringent 
^etiquette  of  a  British  embassy  at  foreign  court  and  capital. 
Honoria  was  nothing  if  not  various.  But,  amid  all  mutations 
of  occupation  and  of  place,  her  fearlessness,  her  lazy  grace, 
her  serious  soul,  her  gallant  bearing,  her  loyalty  to  the  op- 
pressed, remained  the  same.  "  Chaste  and  fair  "  as  Artemis, 
experimental  as  the  Comte  de  St.  Simon  himself,  Honoria 
'roamed  the  world — fascinating  yet  never  quite  fascinated,  en- 
thusiastic yet  evasive,  seeking  earnestly  to  live  yet  too  self- 
centred  as  yet  to  be  able  to  recognise  in  what,  after  all,  con- 
sists the  heart  of  living. 

She  and  Mr.  Quayle  had  met  at  Aldham  Revel  during  the 
past  winter.  She  attracted,  while  slightly  confusing,  that  ac- 
complished young  gentleman — confusing  his  judgment,  well 
understood,  since  Mr.  Quayle  himself  was  incapable  of  con* 
fusion.  Her  views  of  men  and  things  struck  him  as  distinctly 
original.  Her  attitude  of  mind  appeared  unconventional,  yet 
deeply  rooted  prejudices  declared  themselves  where  he  would 
least  have  anticipated  their  existence.  And  so  it  became  a 
favourite  pastime  of  Mr.  Quayle's  to  present  to  her  cases  of 
conscience,  of  conduct,  of  manners  or  morals — usually  those 
of  a  common  acquaintance — for  discussion,  that  he  might  ob- 
serve her  verdict.  He  imagined  this  a  scientific,  psychologic 
exercise.  He  desired,  so  he  supposed,  to  gratify  his  own  su- 
perior, masculine  intelligence,  by  noting  the  aberrations  and 
^arriving  at  the  rationale  of  her  thought.     From  which  it  may 


A  SLIP  BETWIXT  CUP  AND  LIP  319 

be  suspected  that  even  Ludovic  Quayle  had  his  hours  of  inno 
cent  self-deception.  Be  that,  however,  as  it  may,  certain  it  is 
that  in  pursuit  of  this  pastime  he  one  day  presented  to  her  the 
peculiar  case  of  Richard  Calmady  for  discussion,  and  that^ 
not  without  momentous,  though  indirect,  result. 

It  happened  thus.  One  noon  in  May,  Ludovic  had  the 
happiness  of  finding  himself  seated  beside  Miss  St.  Quentin 
in  the  Park,  watching  the  endless  string  of  passing  carriages 
and  the  brilliant  crowd  on  foot.  Sir  Reginald  Aldham  had 
left  his  green  chair — placed  on  the  far  side  of  the  young 
lady's — and  leaned  on  the  railings  talking  to  some  acquaint- 
ance. 

"  A  gay  maturity,"  Ludovic  remarked  with  his  air  oB 
patronage,  indicating  the  elder  gentleman's  shapely  back. 
"  The  term  '  old  boy  '  has,  alas,  declined  upon  the  vernacular, 
and  been  put  to  base  uses  of  jocosity,  so  it  is  a  forbidden  one. 
Else,  in  the  present  instance,  how  applicable,  how  descriptive 
a  term  !  Should  we,  I  wonder,  give  thanks  for  it.  Miss  St- 
Quentin,  that  the  men  of  my  generation  will  mature  accord- 
ing to  a  quite  other  pattern  ?  " 

"  Will  not  ripen,  but  sour  ?  "  Honoria  asked  maliciously.. 
Her  companion's  invincible  self-complacency  frequently^ 
amused  her.  Then  she  added  : — "  But,  you  know,  I'm  very- 
fond  of  him.  It  isn't  altogether  easy  to  keep  straight  as  a 
young  boy,  is  it  ?  Depend  upon  it,  it  is  ten  times  more 
difficult  to  keep  straight  as  an  old  one.  For  a  man  of  that 
temperament  it  can't  be  very  plain  sailing  between  fifty  and 
sixty." 

Mr.  Quayle  looked  at  her  in  gentle  inquiry,  his  long  neclc. 
directed  forward,  his  chin  slightly  raised. 

"  Sailing  ?     The  yacht  is  ?  "  — 

"  The  yacht  is  laid  up  at  Cowes.  And  you  understand^ 
perfectly  well  what  I  mean,"  Honoria  replied,  somewhat 
loftily.  Her  delicate  face  straightened  with  an  expression  of 
sensitive  pride.  But  her  anger  was  short-lived.  She  speedily^ 
forgave  him.  The  sunshine  and  fresh  air,  the  radiant  greem 
of  the  young  leaves,  the  rather  superb  spectacle  of  wealth,, 
vigour,  beauty,  presented  to  her  by  the  brilliant  London  world: 
in  the  brilliant,  summer  noon  was  exhilarating,  tending  to* 
lightness  of  heart.  There  was  poetry  of  an  opulent,  resonant 
sort  in  the  brave  show.     Just  then  a  company  of  Life  Guards 


22^  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

clattered  by,  in  splendour  of  white  and  scarlet  and  shining 
.helmets.  The  rattle  of  accoutrements,  and  thud  of  the  hoofs 
of  their  trotting  horses,  detached  itself  arrestingly  from  the 
surrounding  murmur  of  many  voices  and  ceaseless  roar  of  the 
traffic  at  Hyde  Park  Corner.  A  light  came  into  Honoria's 
eyes.  It  was  good  to  be  alive  on  such  a  day  !  Moreover,  in 
her  own  purely  platonic  fashion,  she  really  entertained  a  very 
^reat  liking  for  the  young  man  seated  at  her  side. 

"You  have  missed  your  vocation,"  she  said,  while  her  eyes 
narrowed  and  her  upper  lip  shortened  into  a  delightful  smile. 
'^  You  were  born  to  be  a  schoolmaster,  a  veritable  pedagogue 
and  terror  of  illiterate  youth.  You  love  to  correct.  And  my 
rather  sketchy  English  gives  you  an  opportunity  of  which  I 
observe  you  are  by  no  means  slow  to  take  advantage.  You 
care  infinitely  more  for  the  manner  of  saying,  than  for  the 
thing  said.  Whereas  I " — she  broke  off  abruptly,  and  her 
face  straightened,  became  serious,  almost  severe,  again.  "  Do 
you  see  who  Sir  Reginald  is  speaking  to  ?  "  she  added. 
'*'  There  are  the  Calmadys." 

A  break  had  come  in  the  loitering  procession  of  correctly 
clothed  men  and  gaily  clothed  women,  of  tall  hats  and  many 
coloured  parasols,  and  in  the  space  thus  affx)rded,  the  Brock- 
hurst  mail-phaeton  became  apparent  drawn  up  against  the  rail- 
ings. The  horses,  a  noticeably  fine  and  well-matched  pair  of 
browns,  were  restless,  notwithstanding  the  groom  at  their 
heads.  Foam  whitened  the  rings  of  their  bits  and  falling 
flakes  of  it  dabbled  their  chests.  Lady  Calmady  leaned  side- 
ways over  the  leather  folds  of  the  hood,  answering  some  in- 
quiry of  Sir  Reginald,  who,  hat  in  hand,  looked  up  at  her. 
She  wore  a  close-fitting,  gray,  velvet  coat,  which  revealed  the 
proportions  of  her  full,  but  still  youthful  figure.  The  air  and 
sunshine  had  given  her  an  unusual  brightness  of  complexion, 
so  that  in  face  as  well  as  in  figure,  youth  still,  in  a  sensible 
measure,  claimed  her.  She  turned  her  head,  appealing,  as  it 
seemed,  to  Richard,  and  the  nimble  breeze  playing  caressingly 
with  the  soft  white  laces  and  gray  plumes  of  her  bonnet  added 
thereby  somehow  to  the  effect  of  glad  and  gracious  content 
pervading  her  aspect.  Richard  looked  round  and  down  at  her, 
half  laughing.  Unquestionably  he  was  victoriously  handsome, 
seen  thus,  uplifted  above  the  throng,  handling  his  fine  horses, 
^1  trace  of  bodily  disfigurement  concealed,  a  touch  of  old- 


A  SLIP  BETWIXT  CUP  AND  LIP  321 

world  courtliness  and  tender  respect  in  his  manner  as  he  ad- 
dressed his  mother. 

Ludovic  Quayle  watched  the  little  scene  with  close  atten- 
tion. Then,  as  the  ranks  of  the  smart  procession  closed  up 
again,  hiding  the  carriage  and  its  occupants  from  sight,  he 
leaned  back  with  a  movement  of  quiet  satisfaction  and  turned 
to  his  companion.  Miss  St.  Quentin  sat  round  in  her  chair, 
presenting  her  long,  slender,  dust-coloured  lace-and-silk-clad 
person  in  profile  to  the  passers-by,  and  so  tilting  her  parasol  as 
to  defy  recognition.  The  expression  of  her  pale  face  and 
singular  eyes  was  far  from  encouraging. 

"  Indeed — and  why  ?  "  Ludovic  permitted  himself  to  re- 
mark, in  tones  of  polite  inquiry.  "  I  had  been  led  to  believe 
that  you  and  Lady  Calmady  were  on  terms  of  rather  warm 
friendship." 

>'  We  are,"  Honoria  answered,  "  that  is,  at  Brockhurst." 

"  Forgive  my  indiscretion — but  why  not  in  London  ?  " 

The  young  lady  looked  full  at  him. 

^'  Mr.  Quayle,"  she  asked,  "  is  it  true  that  you  are  re- 
sponsible for  this  new  departure  of  theirs,  for  their  coming  up, 
I  mean  ?  " 

"  Responsible  ?  You  do  me  too  great  an  honour.  Who: 
am  I  that  I  should  direct  the  action  of  my  brother  man  ?  But 
Lady  Calmady  is  good  enough  to  trust  me  a  little,  and  I  own 
that  I  advocated  a  modification  of  the  existing  regime.'' — 
Ludovic  crossed  his  long  legs  and  fell  to  nursing  one  knee. 
"  It  is  not  breach  of  confidence  to  tell  you — since  you  know 
the  fact  already — that  fate  decreed  an  alien  element  should 
obtrude  itself  into  the  situation  at  Brockhurst  last  autumn.  I 
need  name  no  names,  I  think  ?  " 

Honoria's  head  was  raised.  She  regarded  him  steadfastly, 
but  made  no  sign. 

"  Ah  !  I  need  not  name  names,"  he  repeated ;  "  I  thought 
not.  Well,  after  the  alien  element  removed  itself — the  two 
facts  may  have  no  connection — Lady  Calmady  very  certainly 
never  implied  that  they  had — but,  as  I  remarked,  after  the 
alien  element  removed  itself,  it  was  observable  that  our  poor, 
dear  Dickie  Calmady  became  a  trifle  difficult,  a  trifle  distrait, 
in  plain  English  most  remarkably  grumpy,  and  far  from  de- 
lightful to  live  with.      And  his  mother " 

"  It's  too  bad,  altogether  too  bad  !  "  broke  out  Honoria  hotly. 


322  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

"  Too  bad  of  whom  ?  "  Mr.  Quayle  asked,  with  the  utmost 
suavity.  "  Of  the  nameless,  obtrusive,  alien  element,  or  of 
poor,  dear  Dick  ?  " 

The  young  lady  closed  her  parasol  slowly,  and  turning, 
faced  the  sauntering  crowd  again. 

"  Of  Sir  Richard  Calmady,  of  course,"  she  said. 

Her  companion  did  not  answer  immediately.  His  eyes 
pursued  a  receding  carriage  far  down  the  string,  amid  the  gaily 
shifting  sunshine  and  shadow,  and  the  fluttering  lace  and  gray 
feathers  of  a  woman's  bonnet.  When  he  spoke,  at  last,  it 
was  with  an  unusual  trace  of  feeling. 

^'  After  all,  you  know,  there  are  a  good  many  excuses  for 
Richard  Calmady." 

"  If  it  comes  to  that  there  are  a  good  many  excuses  for 
Helen  de  Vallorbes,"  Honoria  put  in  quickly. 

"  For?  For  ?  "  the  young  man  repeated,  relaxing  into  the 
bJandest  of  smiles.  "  Yes,  thanks — I  see  I  was  right.  It  was 
unnecessary  to  name  names. — Oh  !  undoubtedly,  innumerable 
excuses,  and  of  the  most  valid  description,  were  they  needed 
— were  they  not  swallowed  up  in  the  single,  self-evident  excuse 
that  the  lady  you  mention  is  a  supremely  clever  and  captiva- 
ting person." 

^lYou  think  so  ?  "  said  Honoria. 

"Think  so  ?  Show  me  the  man  so  indiflTerent  to  his  repu- 
tation for  taste  that  he  could  venture  to  think  otherwise  !  " 

"  Still  she  should  have  left  him  alone." — Honoria's  indolent, 
reflective  speech  took  on  a  peculiar  intonation,  and  she  pressed 
her  long-fingered  hands  together,  as  though  controlling  a 
shudder.  "  I — Pm  ashamed  to  confess  it,  I  do  not  like  him. 
But,  as  I  told  you,  just  on  that  account " 

"Pardon  me,  on  what  account  ?  " 

Miss  St.  Quentin  was  quick  to  resent  impertinence,  and 
now  momentarily  anger  struggled  with  her  natural  sincerity. 
But  the  latter  conquered.  Again  she  forgave  Mr.  Quayle. 
But  a  dull  flush  spread  itself  over  her  pale  skin,  and  he  per- 
ceived that  she  was  distinctly  moved.  This  piqued  his  curi- 
osity. 

^^  I  know  I'm  awfully  foolish  about  some  things,"  she  said. 
"  I  can't  bear  to  speak  of  them.  I  dread  seeing  them.  The 
sight  of  them  takes  the  warmth  out  of  the  sunshine." 

Again  Ludovic  fell  to  nursing  his  knee. — What  an  amazing 


A  SLIP  BETWIXT  CUP  AND  LIP  323 

invention  is  the  feminine  mind  !  What  endless  entertainment 
is  derivable  from  striving  to  follow  its  tergiversations  ! 

"  And  you  saw  that  which  takes  the  warmth  out  of  the  sun- 
shine just  now  ?  "  he  said.  "  Ah  !  well — alas,  for  Dickie 
Calmady  !  " 

"  Still  I  can't  bear  any  one  not  to  play  fair.  You  should 
only  hit  a  man  your  own  size.  I  told  Helen  de  Vallorbes 
so.  Pm  very,  very  fond  of  her,  but  she  ought  to  have  spared 
him." — She  paused  a  moment.  "  All  the  same  if  I  had  not 
promised  Lady  Aldham  to  stay  on — as  she's  so  poorly — I 
should  have  gone  out  of  town  when  I  found  the  Calmadys  had 
come  up." 

"  Oh  !  it  goes  as  far  as  that,  does  it  ?  "  Ludovic  murmured. 

*'  I  don't  like  to  see  them  with  all  these  people.  The  ex- 
tent to  which  he  is  petted  and  fooled  becomes  rather  horrible." 

"  Are  you  not  slightly — I  ask  it  with  all  due  deference  and 
humility — just  slightly  merciless  ?  " 

"No,  no,"  the  girl  answered  earnestly.  "I  don't  think 
I'm  that.  The  women  who  run  after  him,  and  flatter  him  so 
outrageously,  are  really  more  merciless  than  I  am.  I  do  not 
pretend  to  like  him — I  can't  like  him,  somehow.  But  I'm 
growing  most  tremendously  sorry  for  him.  And  still  more 
sorry  for  his  mother.  She  was  very  grand — a  person  altogether 
satisfying  to  one's  imagination  and  sense  of  fitness,  at  home, 
with  that  noble  house  and  park  and  racing  stable  for  setting. 
But  here,  she  is  shorn  of  her  glory  somehow." 

The  girl  rose  to  her  feet  with  lazy  grace. 

"She  is  cheapened.  And  that's  a  pity.  There  are  more 
than  enough  pretty  cheap  people  among  us  already. — I  must 
go.  There's  Sir  Reginald  looking  for  me. — If  I  could  be  sure 
Lady  Calmady  hated  it  all  I  should  be  more  reconciled." 

"  Possibly  she  does  hate  it  all,  only  that  it  presents  itself  as 
the  least  of  two  evils." 

"There  is  a  touch  of  dancing  dogs  about  it,  and  that  dis- 
tresses me,"  Miss  St.  Quentin  continued.  "  It  is  Lady 
Calmady's  role  to  be  apart,  separate  from  and  superior  to  the 
rest." 

"The  thing's  being  done  as  well  as  it  can  be,"  Mr.  Quayie 
put  in  mildly. 

"  It  shouldn't  be  done  at  all,"  the  girl  declared.—"  Here  I 
am,  Sir  Reginald.     You  want  to  go  on  ?     I'm  quite  ready." 


324  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 


CHAPTER  III 

IN    WHICH     KATHERINE     TRIES     TO     NAIL    UP    THE    WEATHER- 
GLASS   TO    SET    FAIR 

TT  is  to,  be  feared  that  intimate  acquaintance  with  Lady 
Calmady's  present  attitude  of  mind  would  not  have  proved 
altogether  satisfactory  to  that  ardent  idealist  Honoria  St. 
Ouentin.  For,  unquestionably,  as  the  busy  weeks  of  the 
London  season  went  forward,  Katherine  grew  increasingly  far 
from  "hating  it  all."  At  first  she  had  found  the  varied  inter- 
ests and  persons  presented  to  her,  the  rapid  interchange 
of  thought,  the  constant  movement  of  society,  slightly 
bewildering.  But,  as  Julius  March  had  foretold,  old  habits 
reasserted  themselves.  The  great  world,  and  the  ways  of  it, 
had  been  familiar  to  her  in  her  youth.  She  soon  found  her- 
self walking  in  its  ways  again  with  ease,  and  speaking  its 
language  with  fluency.  And  this,  though  in  itself  of  but  small 
moment  to  her,  procured  her,  indirectly,  a  happiness  as  greatly 
desired  as  it  had  been  little  anticipated. 

For  to  Richard  the  great  world  was,  as  yet,  something  of  an 
undiscovered  country.  Going  forth  into  it  he  felt  shy  and 
diffident,  though  a  lively  curiosity  possessed  him.  The  gentler 
and  more  modest  elements  of  his  nature  came  into  play.  He 
was  sensible  of  his  own  Inexperience,  and  turned  with 
instinctive  trust  and  tender  respect  to  her  in  whom  experience 
was  not  lacking.  He  had  never,  so  he  told  himself,  quite 
understood  how  fine  a  lady  his  mother  was,  how  conspicuous 
was  her  charm  and  distinguished  her  intelligence.  And  he 
clung  to  her,  grown  man  though  he  was,  even  as  a  child, 
entering  a  bright  room  full  of  guests,  clings  to  its  mother's 
hand,  finding  therein  much  comfort  of  encouragement  and 
support.  He  desired  she  should  share  all  his  interests,  reck- 
oning nothing  worth  the  doing  in  which  she  had  not  a  part. 
He  consulted  her  before  each  undertaking,  talked  and  laughed 
over  it  with  her  in  private  afterwards,  thereby  unconsciously 


A  SLIP  BETWIXT  CUP  AND  LIP  325 

securing  to  her  halcyon  days,  a  honeymoon  of  the  heart  of 
infinite  sweetness,  so  that  she,  on  her  part,  thanked  God  and 
took  courage. 

And,  indeed,  it  might  very  well  appear  to  Katherine  that 
her  heroic  remedy  was  on  the  road  to  work  an  effectual  cure. 
The  terror  of  lawless  passion  and  of  evil,  provoked  by  that 
fair  woman  clothed  as  with  the  sea  waves,  crov/ned  and  shod 
with  gold,  whom  she  had  withstood  so  manfully  in  spirit  in 
the  wild  autumn  night,  departed  from  her.  She  began  to  fear 
no  more.  For  surely  her  son  was  wholly  given  back  to  her — 
his  heart  still  free,  his  life  still  innocent  ?  And,  not  only  did 
this  terror  depart,  but  her  anguish  at  his  deformity  was  strangely 
lessened,  the  pain  of  it  lulled  as  by  the  action  of  an  anodyne. 
For,  witnessing  the  young  man's  popularity,  seeing  him  so 
universally  courted  and  welcomed,  observing  his  manifest 
power  of  attraction,  she  began  to  ask  herself  whether  she  had 
not  exaggerated  the  misfortune  of  that  same  deformity  and  the 
impediment  that  it  offered  to  his  career  and  chances  of  per- 
sonal happiness.  She  had  been  morbid,  hypersensitive.  The 
world  evidently  saw  in  his  disfigurement  no  such  horror  and 
hopeless  bar  to  success  as  she  had  seen.  It  was  therefore  a 
dear  world,  a  world  rich  in  consolation  and  promise.  It  smiled 
upon  Richard,  and  so  she  smiled  upon  it,  gratefully,  trustfully, 
finding  in  the  plenitude  of  her  thankfulness  no  wares  save 
honest  ones  set  out  for  sale  in  the  booths  of  Vanity  Fair.  A 
large  hopefulness  arose  in  her.  She  began  to  form  projects 
calculated,  as  she  believed,  to  perpetuate  the  gladness  of  the 
present. 

Among  other  tender  customs  of  Richard's  boyhood  into 
which  Katherine,  at  this  happy  period,  drifted  back  was  that 
of  going,  now  and  again,  to  his  room  at  night,  and  gossiping 
with  him,  for  a  merry,  yet  somewhat  pathetic  half-hour,  be- 
fore herself  retiring  to  rest.  It  fell  out  that,  towards  the  mid- 
dle of  June,  there  had  been  a  dinner  party  at  the  Barkings  on 
a  scale  of  magnificence  unusual  even  in  that  opulent  house. 
It  vi^as  not  the  second,  or  even  the  third,  time  Richard  and 
his  mother  had  dined  in  Albert  Gate.  For  Lady  Louisa  had 
proved  the  most  assiduously  attentive  of  neighbours.  Little 
Lady  Constance  Quayle  was  with  her.  The  young  girl  had 
brightened  notably  of  late.  Her  prettiness  was  enhanced  by 
a   timid    and   appealing   playfulness.      She  had   been    seized. 


326  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

moreover,  with  one  of  those  innocent  and  absorbing  devotions 
towards  Lady  Calmady,  that  young  girls  often  entertain  to- 
wards an  elder  woman,  following  her  about  with  a  sort  of 
dog-like  fidelity,  and  watching  her  with  eyes  full  of  wistful 
admiration.  On  the  present  occasion  the  guests  at  the  Bark- 
ing dinner  had  been  politicians  of  distinction — members  of 
the  then  existing  government.  A  contingent  of  foreign 
diplomatists  from  the  various  embassies  had  been  present,  to- 
gether with  various  notably  smart  women.  Later  there  had 
been  a  reception,  largely  attended,  and  music,  the  finest  that 
Europe  could  produce  and  money  could  buy. 

*"' Louisa  climbs  giddy  heights,"  Mr.  Quayle  had  said  to 
himself,  with  an  attempt  at  irony.  But,  in  point  of  fact,  he 
was  far  from  displeased,  for  it  appeared  to  him  the  house  of 
Barking  showed  to  uncommon  advantage  to-night.  "  Louisa 
has  no  staying  power  in  conversation,  and  her  voice  is  too 
loud,  but  in  suippets  she  is  rather  impressive,"  he  added. 
"  And,  oh  !  how  very  diligent  is  Louisa  !  " 

Driving    home,    Richard    kept    silence    until   just    as    the 
brougham  drew  up,  then  he  said  abruptly  : — 
.    "  Tired  ?     No — that's  right.     Then  come  and  sit  with  me. 
1  want  to  talk.     I  haven't  an  ounce  of  sleep  in  me  somehow 
to-night." 

It  was  hot,  and  when,  some  three-quarters  of  an  hour  later, 
Katherine  entered  the  big  bedroom  on  the  ground  floor,  the 
upper  sashes  of  the  window  were  drawn  low  behind  the 
blinds,  letting  in  the  muffled  roar  of  the  great  city  as  an  under- 
tone to  the  intermittent  sound  of  footsteps,  or  the  occasional 
passing  of  a  belated  carriage  or  cab.  It  formed  an  undertone, 
also,  to  Richard's  memory  of  the  music  to  which  he  had  lately 
listened,  and  the  delight  of  which  was  still  in  his  ears  and  puls- 
ing in  his  blood,  making  his  blue  eyes  bright  and  dark  and 
curving  his  handsome  lips  into  a  very  eloquent  smile  as  he  lay 
back  against  the  piled-up  pillows  of  the  bed. 

"  Good  heavens,  how  divinely  Morabita  sang,"  he  said, 
looking  up  at  his  mother  as  she  stood  looking  down  on  him, 
"  better  even  than  in  Faust  last  night !  I  want  to  hear  her 
again  just  as  often  as  I  can.  Fler  voice  carries  one  right 
away,  out  of  oneself,  into  regions  of  pure  and  unmitigated 
romance.  All  things  are  possible  for  the  moment.  One  be- 
comes as  the  gods,  omnipotent.     We've  got  the  box  as  usual 


A  SLIP  BETWIXT  CUP  AND  LIP  327 

on  Saturday,  mother,  haven't  we  ?  Do  you  remember  if  she 
sings?  " 

Katherine  replied  that  the  great  soprano  did  sing. 

"  Tm  glad,"  Richard  said  ;  "  and  yet  I  don't  know  that  it's 
particularly  wholesome  to  hear  her.  After  being  as  the  gods, 
one  descends  with  rather  too  much  of  a  run  to  the  level  of 
the  ordinary  mortal." — He  turned  on  his  elbow  restlessly,  and 
the  movement  altered  the  lie  of  the  bedclothes,  thereby  dis- 
closing the  unsightly  disproportion  of  his  person  through  the 
light  blanket  and  sheet.  "  And  if  one's  own  level  happens 
unfortunately  to  be  below  that  of  even  the  ordinary  mortal — 
well — well — don't  you  know " 

"  My  dear !  "  Katherine  put  in  softly. 

Richard  lay  straight  on  his  back  again,  and  held  out  his 
hand  to  her. 

"Sit  down,  do,"  he  said.  "Turn  the  big  chair  round  so 
that  I  may  see  you.  I  like  you  in  that  frilly,  white  dressing- 
gown  thing.  Don't  be  afraid,  I'm  not  going  to  be  a  brute  and 
grumble.  You're  much  too  good  to  me,  and  I  know  I  am 
disgustingly  selfish  at  times.     I  was  this  winter,  but " 

"  The  past  is  past,"  Katherine  put  in  again  very  softly. 

"  Yes,  please  God,  it  is,"  he  said, — "  in  some  ways." — He 
paused,  and  then  spoke  as  though  with  an  effort  returning 
from  some  far  distance  of  thought : — "  Yes,  I  like  you  in  that 
white,  frilly  thing.  But  I  liked  that  new,  black  gown  of  yours 
to-night  too.  You  looked  glorious,  do  you  mind  my  saying 
so  ?  And  no  woman  walks  as  well  as  you  do.  I  compared, 
I  watched.  There's  nothing  more  beautiful  than  seeing  a 
woman  walk  really  well — or  a  man  either,  for  that  matter." 

Then  he  caught  at  her  hand  again,  laughing  a  little. — "  No, 
I'm  not  going  to  grumble,"  he  said.  "  Upon  my  word, 
mother,  I  swear  I'm  not.  Here  let's  talk  about  your  gowns. 
I  should  like  to  know,  shall  you  never  wear  anything  but  gray 
or  black  ?  " 

"  Never,  not  even  to  please  you,  Dickie." 

"  Ah,  that's  so  delicious  with  you  !  "  he  exclaimed.  "  Every 
now  and  then  you  bring  one  up  short,  one  knocks  one's  head 
against  a  stone  wall  !  There  is  an  indomitable  strain  in  you. 
I  only  hope  you've  transmitted  it  to  me.  I'm  afraid  I  need 
stifening. — I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  added  quickly  and  courte- 
ously,  "  it  strikes   me   I  am   becoming   slightly   impertinent^ 


328  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

But  that  woman's  voice  has  turned  my  brain  and  loosed  tne 
string  of  my  tongue  so  that  I  speak  words  of  unwisdom.  You 
enjoyed  her  singing  too,  though,  didn't  you  ?  I  thought  so, 
catching  sight  of  you  while  it  was  going  on,  attended  by  the 
faithful  Ludovic  and  little  Lady  Constance.  It's  quite  touch- 
ing to  see  how  she  worships  you.  And  wasn't  Miss  St. 
Quentin  with  you  too  ?  Yes,  I  thought  so.  I  can't  quite 
make  up  my  mind  about  Honoria  St.  Quentin.  Sometimes 
she  strikes  me  as  one  of  the  loveliest  women  here — and  she 
can  walk,  if  you  like,  it's  a  joy  to  see  her.  And  then  again, 
she  seems  to  me  altogether  too  long,  and  off-hand  somehow^ 
and  boyish !  And  then,  too," — Richard  moved  his  head 
against  the  white  pillows,  and  stared  up  at  the  window,  where 
the  blind  sucked,  with  small  creaking  noises,  against  the  top 
edge  of  the  open  sash, — "  she  fights  shy  of  me,  and  personal 
feeling  militates  against  admiration,  you  know.  I  am  sorry, 
for  I  rather  want  to  talk  to  her  about — oh,  well,  a  whole  lot 
of  things.  But  she  avoids  me.  I  never  get  the  opportunity." 
''  My  darling,  don't  you  think  that  is  partly  imagination  ?  " 
"  Perhaps  it  is,"  he  answered.  "  I  dare  say  I  do  indulge  in 
unnecessary  fancies  about  people's  manner  and  so  on.  I  can't 
vety  well  be  off  it,  you  know.  And  every  one  is  really  very 
kind  to  me.  Morabita  was  perfectly  charming  when  I 
thanked  her  in  very  floundering  Italian.  It's  a  pity  she's  so 
fat.  But,  never  mind,  the  fat  vanishes,  to  all  intents  and 
purposes,  when  she  begins  to  sing.  And  old  Barking  is  as 
kmd  as  he  can  be.  I  fee!  av/fully  obliged  to  him,  though  his 
ministrations  to-night  amounted  to  being  slightly  embarrassing. 
He  brought  me  cabinet  ministers  and  under-secretaries,  and 
gorgeous  Germans  and  Turks,  in  batches — and  even  a  real 
live  Chinaman  with  a  pig-tail.  Mother,  do  you  remember  the 
cabinets  at  home  in  the  Long  Gallery  ?  I  used  to  dream 
about  them.  And  that  Chinaman  gave  me  the  queerest  feeU 
ing  to-night.  It  was  idiotic,  but — did  I  ever  tell  you — when 
I  was  a  little  chap,  I  was  always  dreaming  about  war  or  some- 
thing,  from  which  I  couldn't  get  away.  Others  could,  but 
for  me — from  circumstances,  don't  you  know — there  was  nc 
possibility  of  scuttling.  And  the  little  Chinese  figures  on  the 
black,  lacquer  cabinets  were  mixed  up  with  it.     As  I  say,  'i\ 

gripped  me  to-night  in  the  midst  of  alt  those  people  and 

Oh  yes  !  old  Barking  is  very  kind,^*^'  he  went  on,  with  a  change 


A  SLIP  BETWIXT  CUP  AND  LIP  329 

of  tone.  '^  Only  I  wish  Lady  Louisa  would  warn  him  he 
need  not  trouble  himself  to  be  amusing.  He  came  and  sat  by 
me,  towards  the  end  of  the  evening,  and  told  me  the  most 
inane  stories  in  that  inflated  manner  of  his.  Verily,  they  were 
ancient  as  the  hills,  and  a  weariness  to  the  spirit.  But  that 
good-looking,  young  fellow,  Decies,  swallowed  them  all  down 
with  the  devoutest  attention  and  laughed  aloud  in  all  that  he 
conceived  to  be  the  right  places." 

A  pause  came  in  Richard's  flow  of  words.  He  moved 
again  restlessly  and  clasped  his  hands  under  his  head.  Kath- 
erine  had  seldom  seen  him  thus  excited  and  feverish.  A 
sense  of  alarm  grew  on  her,  lest  her  heroic  remedy  was,  after 
all,  not  working  a  wholly  satisfactory  cure.  P^or  there  was  a 
violence  in  his  utterance,  and  in  his  face,  a  certain  reckless- 
ness of  speech  and  of  demeanour,  very  agitating  to  her. 

"  Oh,  every  one's  kind,  awfully  kind,"  he  repeated,  looking 
away  at  the  sucking  blind  again,  "and  I'm  awfully  grateful  to 

them,  but Oh  !     I  tell  you,  that  woman's  voice  has  got 

me  and  made  me  drunk,  made  me  mad  drunk.  I  almost  wish 
I  had  never  heard  her.  I  think  I  won't  go  to  the  opera  again. 
Emotion  that  finds  no  outlet  in  action  only  demoralises  one 
and  breaks  up  one's  philosophy,  and  she  makes  me  know  all 
that  might  be,  and  is  not,  and  never,  never  can  be.  Good  God  ! 
what  a  glorious,  what  an  amazing,  business  I  could  have  made 
of  life  if "  He  slipped  a  little  on  the  pillows,  had  to  un- 
clasp his  hands  hastily  and  press  them  down  on  either  side 
him,  to  keep  his  body  fairly  upright  in  the  bed.  His  features 
contracted  with  a  spasm  of  anger.  "If  I  had  only  had  the 
average  chance,"  he  added  harshly.  "  If  I  had  only  started 
with  the  normal  equipment." 

And,  as  she  listened,  the  old  anguish,  lately  lulled  to  rest  in 
Katherine's  heart,  arose  and  cried  aloud.  But  she  sought 
resolutely  to  stifle  its  crying,  strong  in  faith  and  hope. 

"  I  know,  my  dearest,  I  know,"  she  said  pleadingly.  "  And 
y€t,,since  we  have  been  here,  I  have  thought  perhaps  we  had 
2.  little  underrated  both  your  happy  gift  of  pleasing  and  the 
readiness  of  others  to  be  pleased.  It  seems  to  me,  Dickie,  all 
doors  open  if  you  stretch  out  your  hand.  Well,  my  dear,  I 
Would  have  you  go  forward  fearlessly.  I  would  have  you  more 
ambitious,  more  self-confident.  I  see  and  deplore  my  own 
^«owardly  mistake.     Instead  of  hiding  you  away  at  home,  and 


330  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY  , 

keeping  you  to  myself,  I  ought  to  have  encouraged  you  to 
mix  in  the  world  and  fill  the  position  to  which  both  your 
powers  and  your  birth  entitle  you.  I  was  wrong — I  lament 
my  folly.  But  there  is  ample  time  in  which  to  rectify  my 
mistake." 

Richard's  face  relaxed. 

"  I  wonder — I  wonder,"  he  said. 

"  I  am  sure,"  she  replied. 

"You  are  too  sanguine,"  he  said.  "Your  love  for  me 
blinds  you  to  fact." 

"  No,  no,"  she  replied  again.  "  Love  is  the  only  medium 
in  which  vision  gains  perfect  clearness,  becomes  trustworthy 
and  undistorted." — Instinctively  Katherine  folded  her  hands 
as  in  prayer,  while  the  brightness  of  a  pure  enthusiasm  shone 
in  her  sweet  eyes.  "  That  Ihave  learned  beyond  all  possibil- 
ity of  dispute.  It  has  been  given  me,  through  much  tribula- 
tion, to  arrive  at  that." 

Richard  smiled  upon  her  tenderly,  then,  turning  his  head^ 
remained  silent  for  a  while.  The  sullen  roar  of  the  great  city 
invaded  the  quiet  room  through  the  open  windows,  the  heavy 
regular  tread  of  a  policeman  on  his  beat,  a  shrill  whistle  hail- 
ing a  hansom  from  a  house  some  few  doors  distant  up  the 
square,  and  then  an  answering  rumble  of  wheels  and  clatter 
of  hoofs.  Richard's  face  had  grown  fierce  again,  and  hi» 
breath  came  quick.  He  turned  on  his  side,  and  once  more 
the  dwarfed  proportions  of  his  person  became  perceptible.. 
Lady  Calmady  averted  her  eyes,  fixing  them  upon  his.  But 
even  there  she  found  sad  lack  of  comfort,  for  in  them  she  read 
the  inalienable  distress  and  desolation  of  one  unhandsomely 
treated  by  Nature,  maimed  and  incomplete.  Even  the  Divine 
Light,  resident  within  her,  failed  to  reconcile  her  to  that  read- 
ing. She  shrank  back  in  protest,  once  again,  against  the  deal- 
ing of  Almighty  God  with  this  only  child  of  hers.  And  yet 
— such  is  the  adorable  paradox  of  a  living  faith — even  while 
shrinking,  while  protesting,  she  flung  herself  for  support,  for 
help,  upon  the  very  Being  who  had  permitted,  in  a  sense 
caused,  her  misery. 

"  Mother  can  I  say  something  to  you  ?  "  Richard  asked^ 
rather  hoarsely,  at  last.  n 

"Anything — in  heaven  or  earth." 

"  But  it  is  a  thing  ngt  usually  spoken  of  as  I  want  to  speak 


A  SLIP  BETWIXT  CUP  AND  LIP  331 

of  it.     It  may  seem  indecent.     You  won't  be  disgusted,  or 
think  me  wanting  in  respect  or  in  modesty  ?  " 

"  Surely  not,"  Lady  Calmady  answered  quietly,  yet  a  certain 
trembling  took  her,  a  nervousness  as  in  face  of  the  unknown. 
This  strong,  young  creature  developed  forces,  presented  as- 
pects, in  his  present  feverish  mood,  with  which  she  felt  hardly 
equal  to  cope. 

"  Mother,  I — I  want  to  marry." 

"I,  too,  have  thought  of  that,"  she  said. 

*'  You  don't  consider  that  I  am  debarred  from  marriage  ?  '* 

"  Oh,  no,  no  !  "   Katherine  cried,  a  little  sob  in  her  voice. 

He  looked  at  her  steadily,  with  those  profoundly  desolate 
eyes. 

"  It  would  not  be  wrong  ?  It  would  not  be  otherwise  than 
honourable  ?  "  he  asked. 

If  doubts  arose  within  Katherine  of  the  answer  to  that 
question,  she  crushed  them  down  passionately. 

"  No,  my  dearest,  no,"  she  declared.  "  It  would  not  be 
wrong — it  could  not,  could  not  be  so — if  she  loved  you,  and 
you  loved  whomsoever  you  married." 

"  But  I'm  not  in  love — at  least  not  in  love  with  any  person 
who  can  become  my  wife.  Yet  that  does  not  seem  to  me  to 
matter  very  much.  I  should  be  faithful,  no  fear,  to  any  one 
who  was  good  enough  to  marry  me.  Enough  of  love  would 
come,  if  only  out  of  gratitude,  towards  the  woman  who  would 
accept  me  as — as  I  am — and  forgive  that — that  which  cannot 
be  helped." 

Again  trembling  shook  Katherine.  So  terribly  much 
:scemed  to  her  at  stake  just  then  !  Silently  she  implored  wis- 
dom and  clear-seeing  might  be  accorded  her.  She  leaned  a 
little  forward,  and  taking  his  left  hand  held  it  closely  in  both 
(hers. 

"  Dearest,  that  is  not  all.  Tell  me  all,"  she  said,  "  or  I 
•cannot  quite  follow  your  thought." 

Richard  flung  his  body  sideways  across  the  bed,  and  kissed 
her  hands  as  they  held  his.  The  hot  colour  rushed  ovfr  his 
face  and  neck,  up  to  the  roots  of  his  close-cropped,  curly  :hair. 
He  spoke,  lying  thus  upon  his  chest,  his  face  half  buried  in 
the  sheet. 

"I  want  to  marry  because — because  I  want  a  child — I 
want  a  son,"  he  said. 


332  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

No  words  came  to  Katherine  just  then.  But  she  disen- 
gaged one  hand  and  laid  it  upon  the  dear  brown  head,  and 
waited  in  silence  until  the  violence  of  the  young  man's  emo- 
tion had  spent  itself,  until  the  broad,  muscular  shoulders  had 
ceased  to  heave  and  the  strong,  young  hands  to  grasp  her 
wrist.  Suddenly  Richard  recovered  himself,  sat  up,  rubbing; 
his  hands  across  his  eyes,  laughing,  but  with  a  queer  catch  in 
his  voice. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said.  "  Pm  a  fool,  an  awful  fooL 
Hang  Morabita  and  her  voice  and  the  golden  houses  of  the 
gods,  and  beastly,  showy  omnipotence  to  which  her  voice 
carries  one  away  !  To  talk  sense — mother — ^just  brutal  com- 
mon sense.  My  fate  is  fixed,  you  know.  There's  no  earthly 
use  in  wriggling.  I  am  condemned  to  live  a  cow's  life  and 
die  a  cow's  death.  The  pride  of  life  may  call,  but  I  can't 
answer.  The  great  prizes  are  not  for  me.  I'm  too  heavily 
handicapped.  I  was  looking  at  that  young  fellow,  Decies,  to- 
night  and  considering    his  chances  as  against  my  own 

Oh !  I  know  there's  wealth  in  plenty.  The  pasture's  green 
enough  to  make  many  a  man  covet  it,  and  the  stall's  well 
bedded-down.  I  don't  complain.  Only  mother,  you  know 
— I  know.  Where's  the  use  of  denying  that  which  we 
neither  of  us  ever  really  forget  ? — And  then  sometimes  my 
blood  takes  fire.  It  did  to-night.  And  the  splendour  of  living 
being  denied  me,  I — I — am  tempted  to  say  a  Black  Mass. 
One  must  take  it  out  somehow.  And  I  know  I  could  go  ta 
the  devil  as  few  men  have  ever  gone,  magnificently,  detest- 
ably, with  subtleties  and  refinements  of  iniquity." 

He  laughed  again  a  little.  And,  hearing  him,  his  mother's 
heart  stood  still. 

"Verily,  I  have  advantages,"  he  continued.  "There 
should  be  a  picturesqueness  in  my  descent  to  hell  which  would 
go  far  to  place  my  name  at  the  head  of  the  list  of  those  sinners 
who  have  achieved  immortality " 

"  Richard  !  Richard  !  "  Lady  Calmady  cried,  "  do  you  want 
to  break  my  heart  quite  ?  "  -;i< 

"No,"  he  answered,  simply.  "I'd  infinitely  rather  not 
break  your  heart.  I  have  no  ambition  to  see  my  name  in  that 
devil's  list  except  as  an  uncommonly  ironical  sort  of  second 
best.  But  then  we  must  make  some  change,  some  radical 
change.     At  times,  lately,  I've  felt  as  if  I  was  a  caged  wild 


A  SLIP  BETWIXT  CUP  AND  LIP  333 

beast — blinded,  its  claws  cut,  the  bars  of  its  cage  soldered  and 
riveted,  no  hope  of  escape,  and  yet  the  vigour,  the  immense 
longing  for  freedom  and  activity,  there  all  the  u^hile." 

Richard  stretched  himself. 

'''  Poor  beast,  poor  beast,  poor  beast  !  "  he  said,  shaking  his 
head  and  smiling.  "  I  tell  you  I  get  absurdly  sentimental  over 
it  at  times." 

And  then,  happily,  there  came  a  momentary  lapse  in  the 
entirety  of  his  egoism.  He  turned  on  his  side  and  took  Lady 
Calmady's  hand  again,  and  fell  to  playing  absently  with  her 
bracelets. 

^'You  poor  darling,  how  I  torture  you,"  he  said.  "And 
yet,  now  we've  once  broken  the  ice  and  begun  talking  of  all 
this,  we're  bound  to  talk  on  to  the  finish — if  finish  there  is. 
You  see  these  few  weeks  in  London — I've  enjoyed  them — but 
still  they've  made  me  understand,  more  than  ever,  all  I've 
missed.  Life  calls,  mother,  do  you  see  ?  And  though  the 
beast  is  blind,  and  his  claws  are  cut,  and  his  cage  bolted,  yet, 
when  life  calls,  he  must  answer — must — or  run  mad — or  die 
— do  you  see  ?  " 

"  And  you  shall  answer,  my  beloved.  Never  fear,  you  will 
answer,"  Katherine  replied  proudly. 

Richard's  hand  closed  hard  upon  hers. 

"  Thank  you,"  he  said.  "  You  were  made  to  be  a  mother 
of  heroes,  not  of  a  useless  log  like  me. — And  that's  just  why 
i  want  to  be  good.  And  to  be  good  I  want  a  wife,  that  I  may 
have  that  boy.  I  could  keep  straight  for  him,  mother,  though 
I'm  afraid  I  can't  keep  straight  for  myself,  and  simply  because 
it's  right,  much  longer.  I  want  him  to  have  just  all  that  I  am 
denied.  I  want  him  to  restore  the  balance,  both  for  you  and 
for  me.  I  may  have  something  of  a  career  myself,  perhaps, 
in  politics  or  something.  It's  possible,  but  that  will  come 
later,  if  it  comes  at  all.  And  then  it  would  be  for  his  sake. 
What  I  want  first  is  the  boy,  to  give  me  an  object  and  keep 
up  my  pluck,  and  keep  me  steady.  I,  giving  him  life,  shall 
find  my  life  in  him,  be  paid  for  my  wretched  circumscribed 
•existence  by  his  goodly  and  complete  one.  He  may  be  clever 
or  not — I'd  rather,  of  course,  he  was  not  quite  a  dunce — but  I 
really  don't  very  much  mind,  so  long  as  he  isn't  an  outrageous 
fool,  if  he's  only  an  entirely  sound  and  healthy  human 
animaL" 


334  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

Richard  stretched  himself  upon  the  bed,  straightened  the 
sheet  across  his  chest,  and  clasped  his  hands  under  his  head 
again.  The  desolation  had  gone  out  of  his  eyes.  He  seemed 
to  look  afar  into  the  future,  and  therein  see  manly  satisfaction 
and  content.  His  voice  was  vibrant,  rising  to  a  kind  of 
chant. 

"  He  shall  run,  and  he  shall  swim,  he  shall  fence,  and  he 
shall  row,"  he  said.  "  He  shall  learn  all  gallant  sports,  as  be- 
comes an  English  gentleman.  And  he  shall  ride, — not  as  I 
ride,  God  forbid !  like  a  monkey  strapped  on  a  dog  at  a  fair, 
but  as  a  centaur,  as  a  young  demigod.  We  will  set  him, 
stark  naked,  on  a  bare-backed  horse,  and  see  that  he's  clean- 
limbed, perfect,  without  spot  or  blemish,  from  head  to  heel." 

And  once  more  Katherine  Calmady  held  her  peace,  some- 
what amazed,  somewhat  tremulous,  since  it  seemed  to  her  the 
young  man  was  drawing  a  cheque  upon  the  future  which 
might,  only  too  probably,  be  dishonoured  and  returned  marked 
no  account.  For  who  dare  say  that  this  child  would  ever 
come  to  the  birth,  or  coming,  what  form  it  would  bear  ?  Yet, 
even  so,  she  rejoiced  in  her  son  and  the  high  spirit  he  dis- 
played, while  the  instinct  of  romance  which  inspired  his 
speech  touched  an  answering  chord  in,  and  uplifted,  her. 

By  now  the  brief  June  night  was  nearly  spent.  The  blind 
still  creaked  against  the  open  window  sash,  but  the  thud  of 
horse-hoofs  and  beat  of  passing  footsteps  had  become  infre--* 
quent,  while  the  roar  of  the  mighty  city  bad  dwindled  to  a 
murmur,  as  of  an  ebbing  tide  upon  a  shallow,  sand-strewn 
beach.  The  after-light  of  the  sunset,  walking  the  horizon, 
beneath  the  Pole  star  from  west  to  east,  broadened  upward 
now  towards  the  zenith.  Even  here,  in  the  heart  of  London, 
the  day  broke  with  a  spacious  solemnity.  Richard  raised  him- 
self, and,  sitting  up,  blew  out  the  candles  placed  on  the  table 
at  the  bedside. 

"  Mother,"  he  said,  "  will  you  let  in  the  morning  ?  " 

Lady  Calmady  was  pale  from  her  long  vigil,  and  her  un- 
spoken, yet  searching,  emotion.  She  appeared  very  tall, 
ghostlike  even,  in  her  soft,  white  raiment,  as  she  moved  across 
and  drew  up  the  sucking  blind.  Above  the  gray  parapets  of 
the  houses,  and  the  ranks  of  contorted  chimney-pots,  the  love- 
liness of  the  summer  dawn  grew  wide.  Warm  amber  shaded 
ihrough  gradations  of  exquisite  and  nameless  colour  into  blue. 


A  SLIP  BETWIXT  CUP  AND  LIP  335 

While,  across  this  last,  lay  horizontal  lines  of  fringed,  semi- 
transparent,  opalescent  cloud.  To  Katherine  those  heavenly 
blue  interspaces  spoke  of  peace,  of  the  stilling  of  all  strife, 
when  the  tragic,  yet  superb,  human  story  should  at  last  be 
fully  told  and  God  be  all  in  all.  She  was  very  tired.  The 
struggle  was  so  prolonged.  Her  soul  cried  out  for  rest.  And 
then  she  reminded  herself,  almost  sternly,  that  the  kingdom 
of  God  and  the  peace  of  it  is  no  matter  of  time  or  of  place, 
but  is  within  the  devout  believer,  ever  present,  immediate, 
possessing  his  or  her  soul,  and  by  that  soul  in  turn  possessed. 
Just  then  the  sparrows,  roosting  in  the  garden  of  the  square, 
awoke  with  manifold  and  vociferous  chirping  and  chattering. 
The  voice  from  the  bed  called  to  her. 

"  Mother,"  it  said  imperatively,  "  come  to  me.  You  are 
not  angry  at  what  I  have  told  you  ?  You  understand  ?  You 
will  find  her  for  me  ?  " 

Lady  Calmady  turned  away  from  the  open  window  and  the 
loveliness  of  the  summer  dawn.  She  was  less  tired  some- 
how. God  was  with  her,  so  she  could  not  be  otherwise  than 
hopeful.  Moreover,  the  world  had  proved  itself  very  kind 
towards  her  son.  It  would  not  deny  him  this  last  request, 
surely  ? 

"  My  dearest,  I  think  I  have  found  her  already,"  Lady 
Galmady  answered. 

Yet,  even  as  she  spoke,  she  faltered  a  little,  recognising  the 
energy  and  strength  manifest  in  the  young  man's  countenance, 
remembering  his  late  discourse,  and  the  pent-up  fires  of  his 
nature  to  which  that  discourse  had  borne  only  too  eloquent 
testimony.  For  who  was  a  young  girl,  but  just  out  of  the 
schoolroom,  a  girl  in  pretty,  fresh  frocks — the  last  word  of 
contemporary  fashion, — whose  baby  face  and  slow,  wide-eyed 
gaze  bore  witness  to  her  entire  innocence  of  the  great  primi- 
tive necessities,  the  rather  brutal  joys,  the  intimate  vices,  the 
far-ranging  intellectual  questionings  which  rule  and  mould  the 
action  of  mankind, — who  was  she,  indeed,  to  cope  with  a  na- 
ture such  as  Richard's  ? 

"  Mother,  tell  me,  who  is  it  ?  " 

And  instinctively  Katherine  fell  to  pleading..  She  sat  down 
beside  the  bed  again  and  smoothed  the  sheet. 

"  You  will  be  tender  and  loving  to  her,  Dickie  ?  "  she  said. 
*'  For  she  is  young  and  very  gentle*  and  might  easily  be  made 


336  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

afraid.     You  will  not  forget  what  is  due  to  your  wife,  to  yout 
bride,  in  your  longing  for  a  child?" 

"  Who  is  it  ?  "   Richard  demanded  again. 

"  Ludovic's  sister — little  Lady  Constance  Quayle." 

He  drew  in  his  breath  sharply. 

"  Would  she — would  her  people  consent  ?  "  he  said. 

"  I  think  so.  Judging  by  appearances,  I  am  almost  sure 
they  would  consent." 

A  long  silence  followed.  Richard  lay  still,  looking  at  the 
rosy  flush  that  broadened  in  the  morning  sky  and  touched  the 
bosoms  of  those  deHcate  clouds  with  living,  pulsating  coloujr. 
And  he  flushed  too,  all  his  being  softened  into  a  great  tender-- 
ness,  a  great  shyness,  a  quick  yet  noble  shame.  For  his  whole 
attitude  towards  this  question  of  marriage  changed  strangely  as 
it  passed  from  the  abstract,  from  regions  of  vague  purpose  and 
desire,  to  the  concrete,  to  the  thought  of  a  maiden  with  name 
and  local  habitation,  a  maiden  actual  and  accessible,  whose 
image  he  could  recall,  whose  pretty  looks  and  guileless  speech 
he  knew. 

"I  almost  wish  she  was  not  Ludovic's  sister,  though,"  he 
remarked  presently.     "  It  is  a  great  deal  to  ask." 

"  You  have  a  great  deal  to  offer,"  Katherine  said,  adding  : 
*'  You  can  care  for  her,  Dickie  ?  " 

He  turned  his  head,  his  lips  working  a  little,  his  flushed  face 
very  young  and  bright. 

"  Oh  yes  !  I  can  care  fast  enough,"  he  said.  "  And  I  think 
— I  think  I  could  make  her  happy.  And  you  see,  already 
she  worships  you.  We  would  pet  her,  mother,  and  give  her 
all  manner  of  pretty  things,  and  make  a  little  queen  of  her— 
and  she  would  be  pleased — she's  a  child,  such  a  child." 

Richard  remained  awake  far  into  the  morning,  till  the  rose 
had  died  out  of  the  sky,  and  the  ascending  smoke  of  many 
kitchen-chimneys  began  to  stain  the  expanse  of  heavenly  blue. 
The  thought  of  his  possible  bride  was  very  sweet  to  him.  But 
when  at  last  sleep  came,  dreams  came  likewise.  Helen  de 
Vallorbes'  perfect  face  arose,  in  reproach,  before  him,  and  her 
azure  and  purple  draperies  swept  over  him,  stifling  and  choking 
him  as  the  salt  waves  of  an  angry  sea.  Then  some  one — it  was 
the  comely,  long-limbed  young  soldier,  Mr.  Decies — whom  he 
had  seen  last  night  at  the  Barkings' great  party  when  Morabita 
sang — and  the  soprano's  matchless  voice  was  mixed  up,  in  the 


A  SLIP  BETWIXT  CUP  AND  LIP  337 

strangest  fashion,  with  all  these  transactions — lifted  Helen  and 
all  her  magic  sea-waves  from  ofF  him,  setting  him  free.  But 
even  as  he  did  so,  Dickie  perceived  that  it  was  not  Helen, 
after  all,  whom  the  young  soldier  carried  in  his  arms,  but 
little  Lady  Constance  Quayle.  Whereupon  Richard,  waking 
with  a  start,  conceived  a  wholly  unreasoning  detestation 
of  Mr.  Decies,  while,  along  with  that,  his  purpose  of  mar- 
rying Lady  Constance  increased  notably,  waxed  strong  and 
grew,  putting  forth  all  manner  of  fair  flowers  of  promise  and 
of  hope. 


CHAPTER  IV 

A   LESSON    UPON    THE    ELEVENTH     COMMANDMENT "PARENTS 

OBEY    YOUR    CHILDREN  " 

A  FAMILY  council  was  in  course  of  holding  in  the  lofty, 
white-and-gold  boudoir,  overlooking  the  Park,  in  Albert 
Gate.  Lady  Louisa  Barking  had  summoned  it.  She  had  also 
exercised  a  measure  of  selection  among  intending  members. 
For  instance  Lady  Margaret  and  Lady  Emily, — the  former 
having  a  disposition,  in  the  opinion  of  her  elder  sister,  to 
put  herself  forward  and  support  the  good  cause  with  more 
zeal  than  discretion,  the  latter  being  but  a  weak-kneed  sup- 
porter of  the  cause  at  best, — were  summarily  dismissed. 

"  It  was  really  perfectly  unnecessary  to  discuss  this  sort  of 
thing  before  the  younger  girls,"  she  said.  "It  put  them  out 
of  their  place  and  rather  rubbed  the  freshness  off  their  minds. 
And  then  they  would  chatter  among  themselves.  And  it  all 
became  a  little  foolish  and  missy.  They  never  knew  when 
to  stop." 

One  member  of  the  Quayle  family,  and  that  a  leading  one, 
had  taken  his  dismissal  before  it  was  given  and,  with  a  nice 
mixture  of  defective  moral-courage  and  good  common-sense, 
had  removed  himself  bodily  from  the  neighbourhood  of  the 
scene  of  action.  Lord  Shotover  was  still  in  London.  Along 
with  the  payment  of  his  debts  had  come  a  remarkable  increase 
of  cheerfulness.  He  made  no  more  allusions  to  the  unpleas- 
ant subject  of  cutting  his  throat,  while   the  proposed  foreign 


338  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

tour  had  been  relegated  to  a  vague  future.  It  seemed  a  pitjr 
not  to  see  the  season  out.  It  would  be  little  short  of  a  crime 
to  miss  Goodwood.  He  might  go  out  with  Decies  to  India  in 
the  autumn,  when  that  young  soldier's  leave  had  expired,  and 
look  Guy  up  a  bit.  He  would  rather  like  a  turn  at  pig-stick- 
ing— and  there  were  plenty  of  pig,  he  understood,  in  the 
neighbourhood  of  Agra,  where  his  brother  was  now  stationed. 
On  the  morning  in  question.  Lord  Shotover,  in  excellent 
spirits,  had  walked  down  Piccadilly  with  his  father,  from  his 
rooms  in  Jermyn  Street  to  Albert  Gate.  The  elder  gentleman, 
arriving  from  Westchurch  by  an  early  train,  had  solaced  him- 
self with  a  share  of  the  by  no  means  ascetic  breakfast  of 
which  his  eldest  son  was  partaking  at  a  little  after  half-past 
ten.  It  was  very  much  too  good  a  breakfast  for  a  person  in 
Lord  Shotover's  existing  financial  positipn — so  indeed  were 
the  rooms — so,  in  respect  of  locality,  was  Jermyn  Street  itselL 
Lord  Fallowfeild  knew  this,  no  man  better.  Yet  he  was 
genuinely  pleased,  impressed  even,  by  the  luxury  with  which 
his  erring  son  was  surrounded,  and  proceeded  to  praise 
his  cook,  praise  his  valet's  waiting  at  table,  praise  some  fine 
old  sporting  prints  upon  the  wall.  He  went  so  far,  indeed,  as 
to  chuckle  discreetly — immaculately  faithful  husband  though 
he  was — over  certain  photographs  of  ladies,  more  fair  and 
kind  than  wise,  which  were  stuck  in  the  frame  of  the  looking- 
glass  over  the  chimneypiece.  In  return  for  which  acts  of 
good-fellowship  Lord  Shotover  accompanied  him  as  far  as  the 
steps  of  the  mansion  in  Albert  Gate.  There  he  paused,  re- 
marking with  the  most  disarming  frankness : — 

"  I  would  come  in.  I  want  to  awfully,  I  assure  you.  I 
quite  agree  with  you  about  all  this  affair,  you  know,  and  I 
should  uncommonly  like  to  let  the  others  know  it.  But,  between 
ourselves,  Louisa's  been  so  short  with  me  lately,  so  infernally 
short — if  you'll  pardon  my  saying  so — that  it's  become  down- 
right disagreeable  to  me  to  run  across  her.  So  I'm  afraid  I 
might  only  make  matters  worse  all  round,  don't  you  know,  if  I 
put  in  an  appearance  this  morning." 

"  Has  she,  though  ? "  ejaculated  Lord  Fallowfeild,  in  ref- 
erence presumably  to  his  eldest  daughter's  reported  shortness* 
"  My  dear  boy,  don't  think  of  it.  I  wouldn't  have  you  exposed 
to  unnecessary  unpleasantness  on  any  account." 

Then,  as   he  followed  the  groom-of-the-chambers  up  the 


A  SLIP  BETWIXT  CUP  AND  LIP  339 

bare,  white,  marble  staircase — which  struck  almost  vaultlike  in 
its  chill  and  silence,  after  the  heat  and  glare  and  turmoil  of  the 
great  thoroughfare  without — he  added  to  himself: — 

"  Good  fellow,  Shotover.  Has  his  faults,  but  upon  my 
word,  when  you  come  to  think  of  it,  so  have  all  of  us.  Very 
good-hearted,  sensible  fellow  at  bottom,  Shotover.  Always 
responds  when  you  talk  rationally  to  him.  No  nonsense  about 
him." — His  lordship  sighed  as  he  climbed  the  marble  stair. 
*'  Great  comfort  to  me  at  times  Shotover.  Shows  very  proper 
feeling  on  the  present  occasion,  but  naturally  feels  a  diffidence 
about  expressing  it." 

Thus,  in  the  end,  it  happened  that  the  family  council  con- 
sisted only  of  the  lady  of  the  house,  her  sister  Lady  Alicia 
Winterbotham,  Mr.  Ludovic  Quayle,  and  the  parent  whom 
all  three  of  them  were,  each  in  their  several  ways,  so  perfectly 
willing  to  instruct  in  his  duty  towards  his  children. 

Ludovic,  perhaps,  displayed  less  alacrity  than  usual  in  offer- 
ing good  advice  to  his  father.  His  policy  was  rather  that  of 
masterly  inactivity.  Indeed,  as  the  discussion  waxed  hot — his 
sisters'  voices  rising  slightly  in  tone,  while  Lord  Fallowfeild's 
replies  disclosed  a  vein  of  dogged  obstinacy — he  withdrew  from 
the  field  of  battle  and  moved  slowly  round  the  room  staring 
abstractedly  at  the  pictures.  There  was  a  seductive,  female 
head  by  Greuze,  a  couple  of  reposeful  landscapes  by  Morland,  a 
little  Constable — waterways,  trees,  and  distant  woodland,  swept 
by  wind  and  weather.  But  upon  these  the  young  man  bestowed 
scant  attention.  That  which  fascinated  his  gaze  was  a  series 
of  half-length  portraits  in  oval  frames,  representing  his  parents, 
himself,  his  sisters,  and  brothers.  These  portraits  were  the 
work  of  a  lady  whose  artistic  gifts,  and  whose  prices,  were 
alike  modest.  They  were  in  coloured  chalks,  and  had,  after 
adorning  her  own  sitting-room  for  a  number  of  years,  been 
given,  as  a  wedding  present,  by  Lady  f'allowfeild  to  her  eldest 
daughter.  Mr.  Quayle  reviewed  them  leisurely  now,  looking 
over  his  shoulder  now  and  again  to  note  how  the  tide  of  bat- 
tle rolled,  and  raising  his  eyebrows  in  mute  protest  when  the 
voices  of  the  two  ladies  became  more  than  usually  elevated. 

"  You  see,  papa,  you  have  not  been  here  " — Lady  Louisa 
was  saying. 

"  No,  I  haven't,"  interrupted  Lord  f^allowfeild.  "And  very 
much  I  regrei  *b*itt  I  Ha*'*?u't.     Should  have  done  my  best  to 


340  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

put  a  stop  to  this  engagement  at  the  outset — before  there  was 
any  engagement  at  all,  in  fact." 

"  And  so  you  cannot  possibly  know  how  the  whole  thing — 
any  breaking  ofF  I  mean — would  be  regarded." 

"  Can't  I,  though  ?  "  said  Lord  Fallowfeild.  "  I  know  per- 
fectly well  how  I  should  regard  it  myself." 

"You  do  not  take  the  advantages  sufficiently  into  consider- 
ation, papa.  Of  course  with  their  enormous  wealth  they  can 
afford  to  do  anything." — Mr.  Winterbotham's  income  was  far 
from  princely  at  this  period,  and  Lady  Alicia  was  liable  to  be 
at  once  envious  of,  and  injured  by,  the  riches  of  others.  Her 
wardrobe  was  limited.  She  was,  this  morning,  vexatiously 
conscious  of  a  warmer  hue  in  the  back  pleats  than  in  the  front 
breadth  of  her  mauve,  cashmere  dress,  sparsely  decorated  with 
bows  of  but  indifferently  white  ribbon.  "  It  has  enabled  them 
to  make  an  immense  success.  One  really  gets  rather  tired  of 
hearing  about  them.  But  everybody  goes  to  their  house,  you 
know,  and  says  that  he  is  perfectly  charming." 

"  Half  the  parents  in  London  would  jump  at  the  chance  of 
one  of  their  girls  making  such  a  marriage," — this  from  Lady 
Louisa. 

Mr.  Quayle  looked  over  his  shoulder  and  registered  a  con- 
viction that  his  father  did  not  belong  to  that  active,  parental 
moiety.  He  sat  stubbornly  on  a  straight-backed,  white-and- 
gold  chair,  his  hands  clasped  on  the  top  of  his  favourite,  gold- 
headed  walking-stick.  He  had  refused  to  part  with  this 
weapon  on  entering  the  house.  It  gave  him  a  sense  of  au- 
thority, of  security.  Meanwhile  his  habitually  placid  and  in- 
fantile countenance  wore  an  expression  of  the  acutest  worry. 

"Would  they,  though  ?  "  he  said,  in  response  to  his  daugh- 
ter's information  regarding  the  jumping  moiety. — "Well,  I 
shouldn't.  In  point  of  fact,  I  don't.  All  that  you  and  Alicia 
tell  me  may  be  perfectly  true,  my  dear  Louisa.  I  would  not, 
for  a  moment,  attempt  to  discredit  your  statements.  And  I  don't 
wish  to  be  intemperate. — Stupid  thing  intemperance,  sign  of 
weakness,  intemperance. — Still  I  must  repeat,  and  I  do  repeat, 
I  repeat  clearly,  that  I  do  not  approve  of  this  engagement." 

"Did  not  I  prophesy  long,  long  ago  what  my  father's  atti- 
tude would  be,  Louisa?  "  Mr.  Quayle  murmured  gently,  over 
his  shoulder. 

Then  he  fell  to  contemplating  the  portrdt  of  his  brothe/ 


A  SLIP  BETWIXT  CUP  AND  LIP  341 

Guy,  aged  seven,  who  was  represented  arrayed  in  a  brown* 
hoUand  blouse  of  singular  formlessness  confined  at  the  waist 
by  a  black  leather  belt,  and  carrying,  cupid-like,  in  his  hands 
a  bow  and  arrows  decorated  with  sky-blue  ribbons. — ''  Were 
my  brothers  and  I  actually  such  appallingly  insipid-looking  little 
idiots?  "  he  asked  himself.  "  In  that  case  the  years  do  bring 
compensations.  We  really  bear  fewer  outward  traces  of  utter 
imbecility  now." 

"  I  don't  wish  to  be  harsh  with  you,  my  dears — never  have 
been  harsh,  to  my  knowledge,  with  any  one  of  my  children. 
Believe  in  kindness.  Always  have  been  lenient  with  my  chil- 
dren   " 

''And  as  indirect  consequence  thereof  note  my  eldest 
brother's  frequent  epistles  to  the  Hebrews  !  "  commented  Mr. 
^uayle  softly.  "The  sweet  simplicity  of  this  counterfeit 
presentment  of  him,  armed  with  a  pea-green  bait-tin  and  joint- 
less  fishing-rod,  hardly  shadows  forth  the  copious  insolvencies 
of  recent  times  !  " 

"  Never  have  approved  of  harshness,"  continued  Lord  Fal- 
lowfeild.  "Still  I  do  feel  I  should  have  been  given  an  oppor- 
tunity of  speaking  my  mind  sooner.  I  ought  to  have  been 
referred  to  in  the  first  place.  It  was  my  right.  It  was  due 
to  me.  i  don't  wish  to  assert  my  authority  in  a  tyrannical 
manner.  Hate  tyranny,  always  have  hated  parental  tyranny. 
Still  I  feel  that  it  was  due  to  me.  And  Shotover  quite  agrees 
with  me.  Talked  in  a  very  nice,  gentlemanly,  high-minded 
way  about  it  all  this  morning,  did  Shotover." 

The  two  ladies  exchanged  glances,  drawing  themselves  up 
with  an  assumption  of  reticence  and  severity. 

"  Really  !  "  exclaimed  Lady  Alicia.  "  It  seems  a  pity,  papa, 
that  Shotover's  actions  are  not  a  little  more  in  keeping  with 
his  conversation,  then." 

But  Lord  Fallowfeild  only  grasped  the  head  of  his  walking- 
stick  the  tighter,  congratulating  himself  the  while  on  the  un- 
shakable firmness  both  of  his  mental  and  physical  attitude. 

"  Oh  !  ah  !  yes,"  he  said,  rising  to  heights  of  quite  reckless 
defiance.  "I  know  there  is  a  great  deal  of  prejudice  against 
Shotover,  just  now,  among  you.  He  alluded  to  it  this  morn- 
ing with  a  great  deal  of  feeling.  He  was  not  bitter,  but  he  is 
very  much  hurt,  is  Shotover.  You  are  hard  on  him,  Alicia. 
It  is  a  painful  thing  to  observe  upon,  but  you  are  hard,  and 


342  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

so  is  Winterbotham.  I  regret  to  be  obliged  to  put  h  so 
plainly,  but  I  was  displeased  by  Winterbotham*s  tone  about 
your  brother,  last  time  you  and  he  were  down  at  Whitney  from 
Saturday  to  Monday." 

"  At  all  events,  papa,  George  has  never  cost  his  parents  a 
single  penny  since  he  left  Bailiol,"  Lady  Alicia  replied,  with 
some  spirit  and  a  very  high  colour. 

But  Lord  Fallowfeild  was  not  to  be  beguiled  into  discussion 
of  side  issues,  though  his  amiable  face  was  crumpled  and 
puckered  by  the  effort  to  present  an  uncompromising  front  to 
the  enemy. 

"Some  of  you  ought  to  have  written  and  informed  me  as 
soon  as  you  had  any  suspicion  of  what  was  likely  to  happen. 
Not  to  do  so  was  underhand.  I  do  not  wish  to  employ  strong 
language,  but  I  do  consider  it  underhand.  Shotover  tells  me 
he  would  have  written  if  he  had  only  known.  But,  of  course, 
in  the  present  state  of  feeling,  he  was  shut  out  from  it  all. 
Ludovic  did  know,  I  presume.  And,  I  am  sorry  to  say  it,  but  I 
consider  it  very  unhandsome  of  Ludovic  not  to  have  commu- 
nicated with  me." 

At  this  juncture  Mr.  Quayle  desisted  from  contemplation  of 
the  family  portraits  and  approached  the  belligerents,  threading 
his  way  carefully  between  the  many  tables  and  chairs.  There 
was  much  furniture,  yet  but  few  ornaments,  in  Lady  Louisa's 
boudoir.  The  young  man's  long  neck  was  directed  slightly 
forward  and  his  expression  was  one  of  polite  inquiry. 

"  It  is  very  warm  this  morning,"  he  remarked  parenthetic- 
ally, "  and  as  a  family  we  appear  to  feel  it.  You  did  me  the 
honour  to  refer  to  me  just  now,  I  believe,  my  dear  father  ? 
Since  my  two  younger  sisters  have  been  banished  it  has  hap- 
pily become  possible  to  hear  both  you,  and  myself,  speak.  You 
were  saying  ?  " 

"  That  you  might  very  properly  have  written  and  told  me 
about  this  business,  and  given  me  an  opportunity  of  express- 
ing my  opinion  before  things  reached  a  head." 

Mr.  Quayle  drew  forward  a  chair  and  seated  himself  with 
mild  deliberation.  Lord  Fallowfeild  began  to  fidget.  "Very 
clever  fellow,  Ludovic,"  he  said  to  himself.  "  Wonderfully 
cool  head  " — and  he  became  suspicious  of  his  own  wisdom  in 
having  made  direct  appeal  to  a  person  thus  distinguished. 

"  I   might   have  written,  my  dear  father.     I  admit  that  I 


,     A  SLIP  BETWIXT  CUP  AND  LIP  343 

might.  But  there  were  difficulties.  To  begin  with,  I — in  this 
particular — shared  Shotover's  position.  Louisa  had  not  seen 
fit  to  honour  me  with  her  confidence. — I  beg  your  pardon, 
Louisa,  you  were  saying  ? — And  so,  you  see,  I  really  hadn't 
anything  to  write  about." 

"  But — but — this  young  man  " — Lord  Fallowfeild  was  sen- 
sible of  a  singular  reluctance  to  mention  the  name  of  his  pro- 
posed son-in-law — "  this  young  Calmady,  you  know,  he's  an 
intimate  friend  of  yours " 

^' Difficulty  number  two.  For  I  doubted  how  you  would 
take  the  matter " 

"  Did  you,  though  ? "  said  Lord  Fallowfeild,  with  an  ap- 
preciable smoothing  of  crumples  and  puckers. 

"  I'm  extremely  attached  to  Dickie  Calmady.  And  I  did 
not  want  to  put  a  spoke  in  his  wheel." 

"Of  course  not,  my  dear  boy,  of  course  not.  Nasty  un- 
pleasant business  putting  spokes  in  other  men's  wheels, 
specially  when  they're  your  friends.     I  acknowledge  that." 

"  I  am  sure  you  do,"  Mr.  Quayle  replied,  indulgently. 
"You  are  always  on  the  side  of  doing  the  generous  thing,  my 
dear  father, — when  you  see  it." 

Here  his  lordship's  grasp  upon  the  head  of  his  walking-stick 
relaxed  sensibly. 

"  Thank  you,  Ludovic.  Very  pleasant  thing  to  have  one's 
son  say  to  one,  I  must  say,  uncommonly  pleasant." — Alas  ! 
he  felt  himself  to  be  slipping,  slipping.  "  Deuced  shrewd, 
diplomatic  fellow,  Ludovic,"  he  remarked  to  himself  some- 
what ruefully.  All  the  same,  the  little  compliment  warmed 
him  through.  He  knew  it  made  for  defeat,  yet  for  the  life  of 
him  he  could  not  but  relish  it. — "  Very  pleasant,"  he  repeated. 
"  But  that's  not  the  point,  my  dear  boy.  Now,  about  this 
young  fellow  Calmady's  proposal  for  your  sister  Constance  ?  " 

Mr.  Quayle  looked  full  at  the  speaker,  and  for  once  his  ex- 
pression held  no  hint  of  impertinence  or  raillery. 

"  Dickie  Calmady  is  as  fine  a  fellow  as  ever  fought,  or  won, 
an  almost  hopeless  battle,"  he  said.  "  He  is  somewhat  heroic, 
in  my  opinion.     And  he  is  very  lovable." 

"  Is  he,  though  ? "  Lord  Fallowfeild  commented,  quite  gently. 

"  A  woman  who  understood  him,  and  had  some  idea  of  all 
he  must  hai^e  gone  through,  could  not  well  help  being  very 
proud  of  him." 


344  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

Yet,  even  while  speaking,  the  young  man  knew  his  ad- 
vocacy to  be  but  half-hearted.  He  praised  his  friend  rather 
than  his  friend's  contemplated  marriage. — '■^  But  his  dear,  old 
lordship's  not  very  quick.  He'll  never  spot  that,"  he  added 
mentally.  And  then  he  reflected  that  little  Lady  Constance 
was  not  very  quick  either.  She  might  marry  obediently,  even 
gladly.  But  was  it  probable  she  would  develop  sufficient  im- 
agination ever  to  understand,  and  therefore  be  proud  of,  Rich- 
ard Calmady  ? 

"  He  is  brilliant  too,"  Ludovic  continued.  "  He  is  as  well 
read  as  any  man  of  his  standing  whom  I  know,  and  he  can 
think  for  himself.  And,  when  he  is  in  the  vein  he  is  unusu- 
ally good  company." 

'^  Everybody  says  he  is  extraordinarily  agreeable,"  broke  in 
Lady  Alicia.  ''  Old  Lady  Combmartin  was  saying  only  yes- 
terday— George  and  I  met  her  at  the  Aldhams',  Louisa,  you 
know,  at  dinner — that  she  had  not  heard  better  conversation 
for  years.  And  she  was  brought  up  among  Macaulay  and 
Rogers  and  all  the  Holland  House  set,  so  her  opinion  really  is 
worth  having." 

But  Lord  Fallowfeild's  grasp  had  tightened  again  upon  his 
walking-stick. 

''•  Was  she,  though  ?  "  he  said  rather  incoherently. 

^'  Pray,  from  all  this,  don't  run  away  with  the  notion 
Calmady  is  a  prig,"  Ludovic  interposed.  "  He  is  as  keen  a 
sportsman  as  you  are — in  as  far,  of  course,  as  sport  is  possible 
for  him." 

Here  Lord  Fallowfeild,  finding  himself  somewhat  hard 
pressed,  sought  relief  in  movement.  He  turned  sideways, 
throwing  one  shapely  leg  across  the  other,  grasping  the  sup- 
porting walking-stick  in  his  right  hand,  while  with  the  left  he 
laid  hold  of  the  back  of  the  white-and-gold  chair. 

"  Oh  !  ah  !  yes,"  he  said  valiantly,  directing  his  gaze  upon 
the  tree-tops  in  the  Park.  "  I  quite  accept  all  you  tell  me.  I 
don't  want  to  detract  from  your  friend's  merits — poor,  mean 
sort  of  thing  to  detract  from  any  man's  friend's  merits.  Gen- 
tlemanlike young  fellow,  Calmady,  the  little  I  have  seen  of 
him — reminds  me  of  my  poor  friend  his  father.  I  liked  his 
father.  But,  you  see,  my  dear  boy,  there  is — well,  there's  no 
denying  it,  there  is — and  Shotover  quite " 

"  Of  course,  papa,  we   all  know  what  you   mean,"   Lady 


A  SLIP  BETWIXT  CUP  AND  LIP  345 

Louisa  interposed,  with  a  certain  loftiness  and,  it  must  be 
owned,  asperity.  "  I  have  never  pretended  there  was  not 
something  one  had  to  get  accustomed  to.  But  really  you  for- 
get all  about  it  almost  immediately — every  one  does — one  can 
see  that — don't  they,  Alicia  ?  If  you  had  met  Sir  Richard 
everywhere,  as  we  have  this  season,  you  would  realise  how 
very  very  soon  that  is  quite  forgotten/' 

"  Is  it,  though  ?  "  said  Lord  Fallowfeild  somewhat  incred- 
ulously.    His  face  had  returned  to  a  sadly  puckered  condition. 

'^Yes,  I  assure  you,  nobody  thinks  of  it,  after  just  the  first 
little  shock,  don't  you  know," — this  from  Lady  Louisa. 

^'  I  think  one  feels  it  is  not  quite  nice  to  dwell  on  a  thing 
of  that  kind,"  her  sister  chimed  in,  reddening  again.  "  It 
ought  to  be  ignored." — From  a  girl,  the  speaker  had  enjoyed  a 
reputation  for  great  refinement  of  mind. 

"  I  think  it  amounts  to  being  more  than  not  nice,"  echoed 
Lady  Louisa.  "  I  think  it  is  positively  wrong,  for  nobody  can 
tell  what  accident  may  not  happen  to  any  of  us  at  any  mo- 
ment. And  so  I  am  not  at  all  sure  that  it  is  not  actually  un- 
christian to  make  a  thing  like  that  into  a  serious  objection." 

"  You  know,  papa,  there  must  be  deformed  people  in  some^ 
families,  just  as  there  is  consumption  or  insanity." 

"  Or  under-breeding,  or  attenuated  salaries,"  Mr.  Quayle 
softly  murmured.  "  It  becomes  evident,  my  dear  father,  you 
must  not  expect  too  much  of  sons,  or  I  of  brothers-in-law." 

*•' Think  of  old  Lord  Sokeington — I  mean  the  great  uncle 
of  the  present  man,  of  course — of  his  temper,"  Lady  Louisa 
proceeded,  regardless  of  ironical  comment.  "  It  amounted 
almost  to  mania.  And  yet  Lady  Dorothy  Hellard  would  cer- 
tainly have  married  him.  There  never  was  any  questioa 
about  it." 

"  Would  she,  though  ?  Bad,  old  man,  Sokeington.  Never 
did  approve  of  Sokeington." 

"  Of  course  she  would.  Mrs.  Crookenden,  who  always 
has  been  devoted  to  her,  told  me  so." 

"  Did  she,  though  ?  "  said  Lord  Fallowfeild.  "  But  the 
marriage  was  broken  off,  my  dear." 

He  made  this  remark  triumphantly,  feeling  it  showed  great 
acuteness. 

"  Oh,  dear  no !  indeed  it  wasn't,"  his  daughter  replied- 
"  Lord   Sokeington  behaved  in  the  most  outrageous  manner. 


346  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

At  the  last  moment  he  never  proposed  to  her  at  all.  And 
then  it  came  out  that  for  years  he  had  been  living  with  one  of 
the  still-room  maids/' 

"  Louisa  ! ''  cried  Lady  Alicia,  turning  scarlet. 

"  Had  he,  though  ?     The  old  scoundrel !  " 

"  Papa/'  cried  Lady  Alicia. 

''  So  he  was,  my  dear.  Very  bad  old  man,  Sokeington. 
Very  amusing  old  man  too,  though." 

And,  overcome  by  certain  reminiscences,  Lord  Fallowfeild 
chuckled  a  little,  shamefacedly.  His  second  daughter  there- 
upon arranged  the  folds  of  her  mauve  cashmere,  with  bent 
head. — "  It  is  very  clear  papa  and  Shotover  have  been  together 
to-day,"  she  thought.  "  Shotover's  influence  over  papa  is 
always  demoralising.  It's  too  extraordinary  the  subjects  men 
joke  about  and  call  amusing  when  they  get  together." 

A  pause  followed,  a  brief  cessation  of  hostilities,  during 
which  Mr.  Quayle  looked  inquiringly  at  his  three  companions. 

"  Alicia  fancies  herself  shocked,"  he  said  to  himself,  "  and 
my  father  fancies  himself  wicked,  and  Louisa  fancies  herself 
a  chosen  vessel.  Strong  delusion  is  upon  them  all.  The  only 
question  is  whose  delusion  is  the  strongest,  and  who,  conse- 
quently, will  first  renew  the  fray  ?  Ah  !  the  chosen  vessel ! 
I  thought  as  much." 

"You  see,  papa,  one  really  must  be  practical,"  Lady 
Louisa  began  in  clear,  emphatic  tones.  "  We  all  know  how 
you  have  spoiled  Constance.  She  and  Shotover  have  always 
been  your  favourites.  But  even  you  must  admit  that  Shot- 
over's  wretched  extravagance  has  impoverished  you,  and 
helped  to  impoverish  all  your  other  children.  And  you  must 
also  admit,  notwithstanding  your  partiality  for  Constance, 
that " 

"I  want  to  see  Connie.  I  want  to  hear  from  herself  that 
she  " —  broke  out  Lord  Fallowfeild.  His  kindly  heart  yearned 
over  this  ewe-lamb  of  his  large  flock.  But  the  eldest  of  the 
said  flock  interposed  sternly. 

"  No,  no,"  she  cried,  "  pray,  papa,  not  yet.  Connie  is  quite 
contented  and  reasonable — I  believe  she  is  out  shopping  just 
now,  too.  And  while  you  are  in  this  state  of  indecision  your- 
self, it  would  be  the  greatest  mistake  for  you  to  see  her.  It 
would  only  disturb  and  upset  her — wouldn't  it,  Alicia?  " 

And  the   lady  thus   appealed   to  assented.     It  is  true  that 


A  SLIP  BETWIXT  CUP  AND  LIP  347 

when  she  arrived  at  the  great  house  in  Albert  Gate  that  morn- 
ing she  had  found  little  Lady  Constance  with  her  pretty,  baby^ 
face  sadly  marred  by  tears.  But  she  had  put  that  down  to  the 
exigencies  of  the  situation.  All  young  ladies  of  refined  mind 
cried  under  kindred  circumstances.  Had  she  not  herself  wept 
copiously,  for  the  better  part  of  a  week,  before  finally  deciding 
to  accept  George  Winterbotham  ?  Moreover,  a  point  or 
jealousy  undoubtedly  pricked  Lady  Alicia  in  this  connection.V 
She  was  far  from  being  a  cruel  woman,  but,  comparing  her 
own  modest  material  advantages  in  marriage  with  the  sur- 
prisingly handsome  ones  offered  to  her  little  sister,  she  could 
not  be  wholly  sorry  that  the  latter*s  rose  was  not  entirely 
without  thorns.  That  the  flower  in  question  should  have 
been  thornless,  as  well  as  so  very  fine  and  large,  would  surely^ 
have  trenched  on  injustice  to  herself.  This  thought  had,  per- 
haps unconsciously,  influenced  her  when  enlarging  on  the 
becomingness  of  a  refined  indifference  to  Sir  Richard  Calmady's. 
deformity.  In  her  heart  of  hearts  she  was  disposed,  perhaps 
unconsciously,  to  hail  rather  than  deplore  the  fact  of  that  same 
deformity.  For  did  it  not  tend  subjectively  to  equalise  her  lot 
and  that  of  her  little  sister,  and  modify  the  otherwise  humilia- 
ting disparity  of  their  respective  fortunes  ?  Therefore  she 
capped  Lady  Louisa's  speech,  by  saying  immediately  : — 

"  Yes,  indeed,  papa,  it  would  only  be  an  unkindness  to  run- 
any  risk  of  upsetting  Connie.  No  really  nice  girl  ever  really 
quite  likes  the  idea  of  marriage " 

"  Doesn't  she,  though  ?  "  commented  Lord  Fallowfeild^ 
with  an  air  of  receiving  curious,  scientific  information. 

"  Oh,  of  course  not !  How  could  she  ?  And  then,  papa,, 
you  know  how  you  have  always  indulged  Connie " — Lady 
Alicia's  voice  was  slightly  peevish  in  tone.  She  was  not  m 
very  good  health  at  the  present  time,  with  the  consequence 
that  her  face  showed  thin  and  bird-like.  While,  notwith- 
standing the  genial  heat  of  the  summer's  day,  she  presented  a. 
starved  and  chilly  appearance. — "Always  indulged  Connie," 
she  repeated,  "  and  that  has  inclined  her  to  be  rather  selfish 
and  fanciful." 

The  above  statements,  both  regarding  his  own  conduct  and! 
the  effect  of  that  conduct  upon  his  little  ewe-lamb,  nettled  the 
amiable  nobleman  considerably.  He  faced  round  upon  the 
speaker  with  an  intention  of  reprimand,  but  in  so  doing  his  eyes 


348  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

were  arrested  by  his  daughter's  faded  dress  and  disorganised 
complexion.  He  relented. — ^'  Poor  thing,  looks  ill,"  he 
thought.  "A  man's  an  unworthy  brute  who  ever  says  a  sharp 
word  to  a  woman  in  her  condition." — And,  before  he  had  time 
to  find  a  word  other  than  sharp,  Lady  Louisa  Barking  returned 
to  the  charge. 

"  Exactly,"  she  asserted.  "Alicia  is  perfectly  right.  At 
present  Connie  is  quite  reasonable.  And  all  we  entreat,  papa, 
is  that  you  will  let  her  remain  so,  until  you  have  made  up  your 
own  mind.  Do  pray  let  us  be  dignified.  One  knows  how 
the  servants  get  hold  of  anything  of  this  kind  and  discuss  it, 
if  there  is  any  want  of  dignity  or  any  indecision.  That  is  too 
odious.  And  I  must  really  think  just  a  little  of  Mr.  Barking 
and  myself  in  the  matter.  It  has  all  gone  on  in  our  house, 
you  see.  One  must  consider  appearances,  and  with  all  the 
recent  gossip  about  Shotover,  we  do  not  want  another  esclandre- 
— the  servants  knowing  all  about  it  too.  And  then,  with  all 
your  partiality  for  Constance,  you  cannot  suppose  she  will 
have  many  opportunities  of  marrying  men  with  forty  or  fifty, 
thousand  a  year." 

"  No,  papa,  as  Louisa  says,  in  your  partiality  for  Connie 
you  must  not  entirely  forget  the  claims  of  your  other  children. 
She  must  not  be  encouraged  to  think  exclusively  of  herself, 
and  it  is  not  fair  that  you  should  think  exclusively  of  her.  I 
know  that  George  and  I  arc  poor,  but  it  is  through  no  fault 
of  our  own.  He  most  honourably  refuses  to  take  anything 
from  his  mother,  and  you  know  how  small  my  private  income 
is.  Yet  no  one  can  accuse  George  of  lack  of  generosity. 
When  any  of  my  family  want  to  come  to  us  he  always  makes 
them  welcome.  Maggie  only  left  us  last  Thursday,  and 
Emily  comes  to-morrow.  I  know  we  can't  do  much.  It  is 
not  possible  with  our  small  means  and  establishment.  But 
what  little  we  can  do,  George  is  most  willing  should  be  done." 

"Excellent  fellow,  Winterbotham,"  Lord  Fallowfeild  put 
in  soothingly.  "  Very  steady,  painstaking  man,  Winter- 
botham." 

His  second  daughter  looked  at  him  reproachfully. 

"Thank  you,  papa,"  she  said.  "I  own  I  was  a  little  hurt 
just  now  by  the  tone  in  which  you  alluded  to  George." 

"Were  you,  though?  I'm  sure  I'm  very  sorry,  my  dear 
Alicia.     Hate  to  hurt   anybody,   especially   one  of  my  own 


A  SLIP  BETWIXT  CUP  AND  LIP  349 

»;nildrcn.  Unnatural  thing  to  hurt  one  of  your  own  children. 
But  you  see  this  feeling  of  all  of  yours  about  Shotover  has 
been  very  painful  to  me.  I  never  have  liked  divisions  in 
families.  Never  know  where  they  may  lead  to.  Nasty,  un- 
comfortable things  divisions  in  families." 

"  \Yell,  papa,  I  can  only  say  that  divisions  are  almost 
invariably  caused  by  a  want  of  the  sense  of  duty."  Lady 
Louisa's  voice  was  stern.  "  And  if  people  are  over-indulged 
they  become  selfish,  and  then,  of  course,  they  lose  their  sense 
of  duty." 

"  My  sister  is  a  notable  logician,"  Mr.  Quayle  murmured, 
under  his  breath.  "  If  logic  ruled  life,  how  clear,  how  simple 
our  course  !     But  then,  unfortunately,  it  doesn't." 

"  Shotover  has  really  no  one  but  himself  to  thank  for  any 
bitterness  that  his  brothers  and  sisters  may  feel  towards  him» 
He  has  thrown  away  his  chances,  has  got  the  whole  family 
talked  about  in  a  most  objectionable  manner,  and  has  been  a 
serious  encumbrance  to  you,  and  indirectly  to  all  of  us.  We 
have  all  suffered  quite  enough  trouble  and  annoyance  already. 
And  so  I  must  protest,  papa,  I  must  very  strongly  and  definitely 
protest,  against  Connie  being  permitted,  still  more  encouraged, 
to  do  exactly  the  same  thing." 

Lord  Fallowfeild,  still  grasping  his  walking-stick, — though 
he  could  not  but  fear  that  trusted  weapon  had  proved  faithless 
and  sadly  failed  in  its  duty  of  support, — gazed  distractedly  at 
the  speaker.  Visions  of  Jewish  money-lenders,  of  ladies  more 
fair  and  kind  than  wise,  of  guinea  points  at  whist,  of  the  prize 
ring  of  Baden-Baden,  of  Newmarket  and  Doncaster,  arose 
confusedly  before  him.  What  the  deuce, — he  did  not  like 
bad  language,  but  really, — what  the  dickens,  had  all  these  to  do 
with  his  ewe-lamb,  innocent  little  Constance,  her  virgin-white 
body  and  soul,  and  her  sweet,  wide-eyed  prettiness  ? 

"  My  dear  Louisa,  no  doubt  you  know  what  you  mean,  but 
I  give  you  my  word  I  don't,"  he  began. 

"  Hear,  hear,  my  dear  father,"  put  in  Mr.  Quayle. 
''  There  I  am  with  you.  Louisa's  wing  is  strong,  her  range 
is  great.  I  myself,  on  this  occasion,  find  it  not  a  little  diffi- 
cult to  follow  her." 

"  Nonsense,  Ludovic,"  almost  snapped  the  lady.  "  You 
follow  me  perfectly,  or  can  do  so  if  you  use  your  common 
sense.     Papa  must  face  the  fact,  that  Constance  cannot  afford 


350  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

— that  we  cannot  afford  to  have  her — throw  away  her  chances, 
as  Shotover  has  thrown  away  his.  We  all  have  a  duty,  not 
only  to  ourselves,  but  to  each  other.  Inclination  must  give 
way  to  duty — though  I  do  not  say  Constance  exhibits  any 
real  disinclination  to  this  marriage.  She  is  a  little  flurried. 
As  Alicia  said  just  now,  every  really  nice-minded  girl  is  flurried 
at  the  idea  of  marriage.  She  ought  to  be.  I  consider  it  only 
delicate  that  she  should  be.  But  she  understands — I  have 
pointed  it  out  to  her — that  her  money,  her  position,  and  those 
two  big  houses — Brockhurst  and  the  one  in  Lowndes  Square — 
will  be  of  the  greatest  advantage  to  the  girls  and  to  her 
brothers.  It  is  not  as  if  she  was  nobody.  The  scullery- 
maid  can  marry  whom  she  likes,  of  course.  But  in  our  rank 
of  life  it  is  different.  A  girl  is  bound  to  think  of  her  family, 
as  well  as  of  herself.     She  is  bound  to  consider " 

The  groom-of-the-chambers  opened  the  door  and  advanced 
solemnly  across  the  boudoir  to  Lord  Fallowfeild. 

"  Sir  Richard  Calmady  is  in  the  smoking-room,  my  lord," 
he  said,  "  to  see  you." 


CHAPTER  V 

IPHIGENIA 

/^HASTENED  in  spirit,  verbally  acquiescent,  yet  uncon- 
^^  vinced,  a  somewhat  pitiable  sense  of  inadequacy  upon 
him.  Lord  Fallowfeild  traveled  back  to  Westchurch  that  night. 
Two  days  later  the  morning  papers  announced  to  all  whom  it 
might  concern, — and  that  far  larger  all,  whom  it  did  not  really 
concern  in  the  least, — in  the  conventional  phrases  common  to 
such  announcements,  that  Sir  Richard  Calmady  and  Lady 
Constance  Quayle  had  agreed  shortly  to  become  man  and 
wife.  Thus  did  Katherine  Calmady,  in  all  trustfulness,  strive 
to  give  her  son  his  desire,  while  the  great,  and  little,  world 
looked  on  and  made  comments,  various  as  the  natures  and 
circumstances  of  the  units  composing  them. 

Lady  Louisa  was  filled  with  the  pride  of  victory.  Her 
venture  had  not  miscarried.  At  church  on  Sunday — she  was 
ireally  too   busy  socially,  just  now,  to   attend  what  it  was  her 


A  SLIP  BETWIXT  CUP  AND  LIP  351 

habit  to  describe  as  "odds  and  ends  of  week-day  services,'* 
and  therefore  worshipped  on  the  Sabbath  only,  and  then  by  no 
means  in  secret  or  with  shut  door — she  repeated  the  General 
Thanksgiving  with  much  unction  and  in  an  aggressively 
audible  voice.  And  Lady  Alicia  Winterbotham  expressed  a 
peevish  hope  that, —  "such  great  wealth  might  not  turn 
Constance's  head  and  make  her  just  a  little  vulgar.  It  was 
all  rather  dangerous  for  a  girl  of  her  age,  and  she  '* — the 
speaker — "  trusted  somebody  would  point  out  to  Connie  the 
heavy  responsibilities  towards  others  such  a  position  brought 
with  it."  And  Lord  Shotover  delivered  it  as  his  opinion 
that, — "  It  might  be  all  right.  He  hoped  to  goodness  it  was, 
for  he'd  always  been  uncommonly  fond  of  the  young  un. 
But  it  seemed  to  him  rather  a  put-up  job  all  round,  and  so  he 
meant  just  to  keep  his  eye  on  Con,  he  swore  he  did."  In 
furtherance  of  which  laudable  determination  he  braved  his 
eldest  sister's  frowns  with  heroic  intrepidity,  calling  to  see  the 
young  girl  whenever  ail  other  sources  of  amusement  failed 
him,  and  paying  her  the  compliment — as  is  the  habit  of  the 
natural  man,  when  unselfishly  desirous  of  giving  pleasure  to 
the  women  of  his  family — of  talking  continuously  and  ex- 
clusively about  his  own  affairs,  his  gains  at  cards,  his  losses 
on  horses,  even  recounting,  in  moments  of  more  than  ordina- 
rily expansive  affection,  the  less  wholly  disreputable  episodes 
of  his  many  adventures  of  the  heart.  And  Honoria  St. 
Quentin's  sensitive  face  straightened  and  her  lips  closed 
rather  tight  whenever  the  marriage  was  mentioned  before  her. 
She  refused  to  express  any  view  on  the  subject,  and  to  that 
end  took  rather  elaborate  pains  to  avoid  the  society  of  Mr. 
Quayle.  And  Lady  Dorothy  Hellard, — whose  unhappy  dis- 
appointment in  respect  of  the  late  Lord  Sokeington  and  other 
non-successful  excursions  in  the  direction  of  wedlock,  had  not 
cured  her  of  sentimental  leanings, — asserted  that, — "  It  was 
quite  the  most  romantic  and  touching  engagement  she  had 
ever  heard  of."  To  which  speech  her  mother,  the  Dowager 
Lady  Combmartin,  replied,  with  the  directness  of  statement 
which  made  her  acquaintance  so  cautious  of  differing  from 
her  : — "  Touching  ?  Romantic  ?  Fiddle-de-dee  !  You  ought 
to  be  ashamed  of  yourself  for  thinking  so  at  your  age^ 
Dorothy.  A  bargain's  a  bargain,  and  in  my  opinion  the  bride 
has  got   much   the  best   of  it.     For  she's  a  mawkish,  milk- 


352  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

and-water,  little  schoolgirl,  while  he  is  charming — all  there 
is  of  him.  If  there'd  been  a  little  more  I  declared  Pd  have 
married  him  myself."  And  good-looking  Mr.  Decies,  of  the 
loist  Lancers,  got  into  very  hot  water  with  the  mounted  con- 
stables, and  with  the  livery-stable  keeper  from  whom  he  hired 
his  hacks,  for  "  furious  riding "  in  the  Park.  And  Julius 
March  walked  the  paved  ways  and  fragrant  alleys  of  the  red- 
walled  gardens  at  Brockhurst,  somewhat  sadly,  in  the  glowing 
June  twilights,  meditating  upon  the  pitiless  power  of  change 
which  infects  all  things  human,  and  of  his  own  lifelong  love 
doomed  to  "  find  no  earthly  close."  And  Mrs.  Chifney,  down 
at  the  racing  stables,  rejoiced  to  the  point  of  tears,  being  pos- 
sessed by  the  persistent  instinct  of  matrimony  common  to  the 
British,  lower  middle-class.  And  Sandyfield  parish  rejoiced 
likewise,  and  pealed  its  church-bells  in  token  thereof,  foresee- 
ing much  carnal  gratification  in  the  matter  of  cakes  and  ale. 
And  Madame  de  Vallorbes,  whose  letters  to  Richard  had  come 
to  be  pretty  frequent  during  the  last  eight  months,  was  over- 
taken by  silence  and  did  not  write  at  all. 

But  this  omission  on  the  part  of  his  cousin  was  grateful, 
rather  than  distressing,  to  the  young  man.  It  appeared  to  him 
very  sympathetic  of  Helen  not  to  write.  It  showed  a  finely, 
imaginative  sensibility  and  considerateness  on  her  part,  which 
made  Dickie  sigh,  thinking  of  it,  and  then,  so  to  speak,  turn 
away  his  head.  And  to  do  this  last  was  the  less  difficult  that 
his  days  were  very  full  just  now.  And  his  mind  was  very  full, 
likewise,  of  gentle  thoughts  of,  and  many  provisions  for,  the 
happiness  of  his  promised  bride. 

The  young  girl  was  timid  in  his  presence,  it  is  true.  Yet 
she  was  transparently,  appealing,  anxious  to  please.  Her 
conversation  was  neither  ready  nor  brilliant,  but  she  was  very 
fair  to  look  upon  in  her  childlike  freshness  and  innocence.  A 
protective  element,  a  tender  and  chivalrous  loyalty,  entered 
into  Richard's  every  thought  of  her.  A  great  passion  and  a 
happy  marriage  were  two  quite  separate  matters — so  he  argued 
in  his  inexperience.  And  this  was  surely  the  wife  a  man 
should  desire,  modest,  guileless,  dutiful,  pure  in  heart  as  in 
person  ?  The  gentle  dumbness  which  often  held  her  did  not 
trouble  him.  It  was  a  pretty  pastime  to  try  to  win  her  confi- 
dence and  open  the  doors  of  her  artless  speech. 

And  then,  to  Richard,  tempted  it  is  true,  but  as  yet  him- 


A  SLIP  BETWIXT  CUP  AND  UP  35J 

self  unsullied,  it  was  so  sacred  and  wonderful  a  thing  that  this 
spotless  woman-creature  in  all  the  fragrance  of  her  youth  be- 
longed to  him  in  a  measure  already,  and  would  belong  to  him,, 
before  many  weeks  were  out,  wholly  and  of  inalienable  right. 
And  so  it  happened  that  the  very  limitations  of  the  young 
girl's  nature  came  to  enhance  her  attractions.  Dickie  could 
not  get  very  near  to  her  mind,  but  that  merely  piqued  his 
curiosity  and  provoked  his  desire  of  discovery.  She  was  to 
him  as  a  book  written  in  strange  character,  difficult  to  de- 
cipher. With  the  result  that  he  accredited  her  with  subtleties 
and  many  fine  feelings  she  did  riot  really  possess,  while  he 
failed  to  divine — not  from  defective  sympathy  so  much  as 
from  absorption  in  his  self-created  idea  of  her — the  very^ 
simple  feelings  which  actually  animated  her.  His  masculine- 
pride  was  satisfied  in  that  so  eligible  a  maiden  consented  to- 
become  his  wife.  His  moral  sense  was  satisfied  also,  since  he 
had — as  he  supposed — put  temptation  from  him  and  chosen 
the  better  part.  Very  certainly  he  was  not  violently  in  love. 
That  he  supposed  to  be  a  thing  of  the  past.  But  he  was 
quietly  happy.  While  ahead  lay  the  mysterious  enchantments 
of  marriage.  Dickie's  heart  was  very  tender,  just  then. 
Life  had  never  turned  on  him  a  more  gracious  face. 

Nevertheless,  once  or  twice,  a  breath  of  distrust  dimmed 
the  bright  surface  of  his  existing  complacency.  One  day,  for 
instance,  he  had  taken  his  fiancee  for  a  morning  drive  and 
brought  her  home  to  luncheon.  After  that  meal  she  should 
sit  for  a  while  with  Lady  Calmady  and  then  join  him  in  the 
library  down-stairs,  for  he  had  that  which  he  coveted  to  show 
her.  But  it  appeared  to  him  that  she  tarried  unduly  with  his 
mother,  and  he  grew  impatient  waiting  through  the  long  min- 
utes of  the  summer  afternoon.  A  barrel-organ  droned  slum- 
berously  from  the  other  side  of  the  square,  while  to  his  ears, 
so  long  attuned  to  country  silences  or  the  quick,  intermittent 
music  of  nature,  the  ceaseless  roar  of  London  became  burden- 
some. Ever  after,  thinking  of  this  first  wooing  of  his,  he  re- 
called— as  slightly  sinister — that  ever-present  murmur  of 
traffic, — bearing  testimony,  at  it  seemed  later,  to  the  many- 
activities  in  which  he  could  play,  after  all,  but  so  paltry  and 
circumscribed  a  part. 

And,  listening   to   that   same   murmur   now,  something   of 
rebellion  against  circumstance  arose  in  Dickie  for  all  that  the 


354  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

present  was  very  good.  For,  as  he  considered,  any  lover 
other  than  himself  would  not  sit  pinned  to  an  armchair  await- 
ing his  mistress'  coming,  but,  did  she  delay,  would  go  to  seek 
iier,  claim  her,  and  bear  her  merrily  away.  The  organ- 
grinder,  meanwhile,  cheered  by  a  copper  shower  from  some 
^  adjacent  balcony,  turned  the  handle  of  his  instrument  more 
vigorously,  letting  loose  stirring  valse-tune  and  march  upon 
the  sultry  air.  Such  music  was,  of  necessity,  somewhat  com- 
fortless hearing  to  Richard,  debarred  alike  from  deeds  of  arms 
or  joy  of  dancing.  His  impatience  increased.  It  was  a  little 
inconsiderate  of  his  mother  surely  to  detain  Constance  for  so 
long !  But  just  then  the  sound  of  women's  voices  reached 
him  through  the  half-open  door.  The  two  ladies  were  leis- 
urely descending  the  stairs.  There  was  a  little  pause,  then  he 
heard  Lady  Calmady  say,  as  though  in  gentle  rebuke : — 

'^  No,  no,  dear  child,  I  will  not  come  with  you.  Richard 
would  like  better  to  see  you  alone.  Too,  I  have  a  number  of 
letters  to  write.  I  am  at  home  to  no  one  this  afternoon.  You 
will  find  me  in  the  sitting-room  here.  You  can  come  and  bid 
me  good-bye — now,  dear  child,  go." 

Thus  admonished.  Lady  Constance  moved  forward.  Yet, 
to  Dickie*s  listening  ears,  it  appeared  that  it  took  her  an  in- 
ordinate length  of  time  to  traverse  the  length  of  the  hall  from 
the  foot  of  the  stairs  to  the  library  door.  And  there  again 
she  paused,  the  organ,  now  nearer,  rattling  out  the  tramp  of  a 
popular  military  march.  But  the  throb  and  beat  of  the  quick- 
step failed  to  hasten  little  Lady  Constance's  lagging  feet,  so 
that  further  rebellion  against  his  own  infirmity  assaulted  poor 
Dick. 

At  length  the  girl  entered  with  a  little  rush,  her  soft  cheeks 
flushed,  her  rounded  bosom  heaving,  as  though  she  arrived 
from  a  long  and  arduous  walk,  rather  than  from  that  particu- 
larly deliberate  traversing  of  the  cool  hall  and  descent  of  the 
airy  stairway. 

"  Ah  !  here  you  are  at  last,  then  !  "  Richard  exclaimed.  "I 
began  to  wonder  if  you  had  forgotten  all  about  me." 

The  young  girl  did  not  attempt  to  sit  down,  but  stood 
directly  in  front  of  him,  her  hands  clasped  loosely,  yet  some- 
what nervously,  almost  in  the  attitude  of  a  child  about  to  recite 
a  lesson.  Her  still,  heifer's  eyes  were  situate  so  far  apart 
that  Dickie,  looking  up  at  her,  found  it  difficult  to  focus  them 


A  SLIP  BETWIXT  CUP  AND  LIP  355 

both  at  the  same  glance.  And  this  produced  an  effect  of 
slight  uncertainty,  even  defect  of  vision,  at  once  pathetic  and 
quaintly  attractive.  Her  face  was  heart-shaped,  narrowing 
from  the  wide,  low  brow  to  the  small,  rounded  chin  set  below 
a  round,  babyish  mouth  of  slight  mobility  but  much  innocent 
sweetness.  Her  light,  brown  hair,  rising  in  an  upward  curve 
on  either  side  the  straight  parting,  was  swept  back  softly,  yet 
smoothly,  behind  her  small  ears.  The  neck  of  her  white,, 
alpaca  dress,  cut  square  according  to  the  then  prevailing  fash- 
ion, was  outlined  with  flat  bands  of  pale,  blue  ribbon,  and 
filled  up  with  lace  to  the  base  of  the  round  column  of  her 
throat.  Blue  ribbons  adorned  the  hem  of  her  simple  skirt,, 
and  a  band  of  the  same  colour  encircled  her  shapely,  though 
not  noticeably  slender,  waist.  Her  bosom  was  rather  full  for 
so  young  a  woman,  so  that,  notwithstanding  her  perfect  fresh- 
ness and  air  of  almost  childlike  simplicity,  there  was  a  certain 
statuesque  quality  in  the  effect  of  her  white-clad  figure  seen 
thus  in  the  shaded  library,  with  its  russet-red  walls  and  fur- 
nishings and  ranges  of  dark  bookshelves. 

"  I  am  so  sorry,"  she  said  breathlessly.  "  I  should  have 
come  sooner,  but  I  was  talking  to  Lady  Calmady,  and  I  did. 
not  know  it  was  so  late.  I  am  not  afraid  of  talking  to  Lady^ 
Calmady,  she  is  so  very  kind  to  me,  and  there  are  many^ 
questions  I  wanted  to  ask  her.  She  promises  to  help  and  tell 
me  what  I  ought  to  do.  And  I  am  very  glad  of  that.  It 
will  prevent  my  making  mistakes." 

Her  attitude  and  the  earnestness  of  her  artless  speech  were 
to  Richard  almost  pathetically  engaging.  His  irritation  van- 
ished. He  smiled,  looked  up  at  her,  his  own  face  flushing  a 
little. 

"I  don't  fancy  you  will  ever  make  any  very  dangerous 
mistakes  !  "  he  said. 

"  Ah  !  but  I  might,"  the  girl  insisted.  "  You  see  I  have 
always  been  told  what  to  do." 

"Always?  "  Dickie  asked,  more  for  the  pleasure  of  watch- 
ing her  stand  thus  than  for  any  great  importance  he  attached 
to  her  answer. 

"  Oh  yes  !  "  she  said.  "  First  by  our  nurses,  and  then  by 
our  governesses.  They  were  not  always  very  kind.  They 
called  me  obstinate.  But  I  did  not  mean  to  be  obstinate- 
Only  they   spoke  in  French  or  German,  and  I  could  not  aU 


356  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

ways  understand.  And  since  I  have  grown  up  my  elder 
sisters  have  told  me  what  I  ought  to  do." 

It  seemed  to  Richard  that  the  girl's  small,  round  chin 
xjuivered  a  little,  and  that  a  look  of  vague  distress  invaded  her 
soft,  ruminant,  wide-set  eyes. 

"And  so  I  should  have  been  very  frightened,  now,  unless  I 
had  had  Lady  Calmady  to  tell  me.'' 

''Well,  I  think  there's  only  one  thing  my  mother  will  need 
to  tell  you,  and  it  won't  run  into  either  French  or  German. 
It  can  be  stated  in  very  plain  English.  Just  to  do  whatever 
you  like,  and — and  be  happy." 

Lady  Constance  stared  at  the  speaker  with  her  air  of  gentle 
perplexity.  As  she  did  so  undoubtedly  her  pretty  chin  did 
;quiver  a  little. 

''  Ah  !  but  to  do  what  you  like  can  never  really  make  you 
thappy,"  she  said. 

"Can't  it?  I'm  not  altogether  so  sure  of  that.  I  had 
ventured  to  suppose  there  were  a  number  of  things  you  and  I 
would  do  in  the  future  which  will  be  most  uncommonly  pleas- 
ant without  being  conspicuously  harmful." 

He  leaned  sideways,  stretching  out  to  a  neighbouring  chair 
with  his  right  hand,  keeping  the  light,  silk-woven,  red  blanket 
mp  across  his  thighs  with  his  left. 

"  Do  sit  down,  Constance,  and  we  will  talk  of  things  we 
■both  like  to  do,  at  greater  length  — —  Ah  !  bother — forgive 
me — I  can't  reach  it." 

"  Oh  !  please  don't  trouble.  It  doesn't  matter.  I  can  get 
It  quite  well  myself,"  Lady  Constance  said,  quite  quickly  for 
once.  She  drew  up  the  chair  and  sat  down  near  him,  folding 
her  hands  again  nervously  in  her  lap.  All  the  colour  had 
died  out  of  her  cheeks.  They  were  as  white  as  her  rounded 
throat.  She  kept  her  eyes  fixed  on  Richard's  face,  and  her 
bosom  rose  and  fell,  while  her  words  came  somewhat  gasp- 
ingly. Still  she  talked  on  with  a  touching  little  effect  of 
^determined  civility. 

"  Lady  Calmady  was  very  kind  in  telling  me  I  might  some- 
times go  over  to  Whitney,"  she  said.  "  I  should  like  that.  I 
•am  afraid  papa  will  miss  me.  Of  course  there  will  be  all  the 
others  just  the  same.  But  I  go  out  so  much  with  him.  Of 
•course  I  would  not  ask  to  go  over  very  often,  because  I  know 
4t  might  be  inconvenient  for  me  to  have  the  horses." 


C( 


A  SLIP  BETWIXT  CUP  AND  LIP  357 

"  But  you  will  have  your  own  horses,"  Richard  answered. 
I  wrote  to  Chifney  to  look  out  for  a  pair  of  cobs  for  you 
last  week — browns — you  said  you  liked  that  colour  I  remem- 
ber. And  I  told  him  they  were  to  be  broken  until  big  guns, 
going  off  under  their  very  noses,  wouldn't  make  them  so 
much  as  wince." 

"  Are  you  buying  them  just  for  me  ? "  the  girl  said. 

"Just  for  you?"  Dickie  laughed.  "  Why,  who  on  earth 
should  I  buy  anything  tor  but  just  you,  I  should  like  ta 
know  ? " 

"But" — she  began. 

"  But — but " — he  echoed,  resting  his  hands  on  the  two^ 
arms  of  his  chair,  leaning  forward  and  still  laughing,  though 
somewhat  shyly.  "  Don't  you  see  the  whole  and  sole  pro- 
gramme is  that  you  should  do  all  you  like,  and  have  all 
you  like,  and — and  be  happy."- — Richard  straightened  him- 
self up,  still  looking  full  at  her,  trying  to  focus  both  these 
quaintly — engaging,  far-apart  eyes.  "  Constance,  do  you 
never  play  ?  "  he  asked  her  suddenly. 

"  I  did  practice  every  morning  at  home,  but  lately " 

"  Oh  !  I  don't  mean  that,"  the  young  man  said.  "  I  mean 
quite  another  sort  of  playing." 

"  Games  ?  "  Lady  Constance  inquired.  "  I  am  afraid  I  am 
rather  stupid  about  games.  I  find  it  so  difficult  to  remember 
numbers  and  words,  and  I  never  can  make  a  ball  go  where  I 
want  it  to,  somehow." 

"  I  was  not  thinking  of  games  either,  exactly,"  Richard: 
said,  smiling. 

The  girl  stared  at  him  in  some  perplexity.  Then  spoke 
again,  with  the  same  little  effect  of  determined  civility. 

"  I  am  very  fond  of  dancing  and  of  skating.  The  ice  was 
very  good  on  the  lake  at  Whitney  this  winter.  Rupert  and 
Gerry  were  home  from  Eton,  and  Eddy  had  brought  a  young 
man  down  with  him — Mr.  Hubbard — who  is  in  his  business 
in  Liverpool,  and  a  friend  of  my  brother  Guy's  was  staying  in 
the  house  too,  from  India.  I  think  you  have  met  him — Mr* 
Decies.  We  skated  till  past  twelve  one  night — a  Wednes- 
day, I  think.  There  was  a  moon,  and  a  great  many  stars.. 
The  thermometer  registered  fifteen  degrees  of  frost  Mr.. 
Decies  told  me.  But  1  was  not  cold.  It  was  very  beau- 
tiful." 


358  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

Richard  shifted  his  position.  The  organ  had  moved  farther 
away.  Uncheered  by  further  copper  showers,  it  droned  again 
slumberously,  while  the  murmur  sent  forth  by  the  thousand 
activities  of  the  great  city  waxed  loud,  for  the  moment,  and 
hoarsely  insistent. 

"  I  do  not  bore  you  i  "  Lady  Constance  asked,  in  sudden 
anxiety. 

"  Oh  no,  no !  "  Richard  answered.  "  I  am  glad  to  have 
you  tell  me  about  yourself,  if  you  will ;  and  all  that  you  care 
for.'* 

Thus  encouraged,  the  girl  took  up  her  little  parable  again, 
her  sweet,  rather  vacant,  face  growing  almost  animated  as  she 
spoke. 

"  We  did  something  else  I  liked  very  much,  but  from  what 
Alicia  said  afterwards  I  am  afraid  I  ought  not  to  have  liked  it. 
One  day  it  snowed,  and  we  all  played  hide-and-seek.  There 
are  a  number  of  attics  in  the  roof  of  the  bachelor's  wing  at 
Whitney,  and  there  are  long  up-and-down  passages  leading 
round  to  the  old  nurseries.  Mama  did  not  mind,  but  Alicia 
was  very  displeased.  She  said  it  was  a  mere  excuse  for  romp- 
ing. But  that  was  not  true.  Of  course  we  never  thought  of 
romping.  We  did  make  a  great  noise,"  she  added  conscien- 
tiously, "  but  that  was  Rupert  and  Gerry's  fault.  They  would 
jump  out  after  promising  not  to,  and  of  course  it  was  impossi- 
ble to  help  screaming.  Eddy's  Liverpool  friend  tried  to  jump 
■out  too,  but  Maggie  snubbed  him.  I  think  he  deserved  it. 
"Y*ou  ought  to  play  fair;  don't  you  think  so?  After  promis- 
ing, you  would  never  jump  out,  would  you  ?  " 

And  there  Lady  Constance  stopped,  with  a  little  gasp. 

''  Oh  !  I  beg  your  pardon.  I  am  so  sorry.  I  forgot,"  she 
added  breathlessly. 

Richard's  face  had  become  thin  and  keen. 

'^  Forget  just  as  often  as  you  can,  please,"  he  answered 
huskily.  "I  would  infinitely  rather  have  you — have  every- 
body— forget  altogether — if  possible." 

"Oh!  but  I  think  that  would  be  wrong  of  me,"  she  re- 
joined, with  gentle  dogmatism.  "  It  is  selfish  to  forget  any- 
thing that  is  very  sad." 

"  And  is  this  so  very  sad  ?  "  Richard  asked,  almost  harshly. 

The  girl  stared  at  him  with  parted  lips. 
Oh  yes  !  "    she  said  slowly.     "  Of  course, — don't    you 


C( 


A  SLIP  BETWIXT  CUP  AND  LIP  359 

think  so  ?  It  Is  dreadfully  sad." — And  then,  her  attitude  still 
unchanged  and  her  pretty  plump  hands  still  folded  on  her  lap, 
she  went  on,  in  her  touching  determination  to  sustain  the 
conversation  with  due  readiness  and  civility.  "  Brockhurst  is 
a  much  larger  house  than  Whitney,  isn't  it  ?  I  thought  so 
the  day  we  drove  over  to  luncheon — when  that  beautiful, 
French  cousin  of  yours  was  staying  with  you,  you  re- 
member ?  " 

"Yes,  I  remember,"  Richard  said. 

And  as  he  spoke  Madame  de  Vallorbes,  clothed  in  the  sea- 
waves,  crowned  and  shod  with  gold,  seemed  to  stand  for  a 
moment  beside  his  innocent,  little  Jiancee,  How  long  it  was 
since  he  had  heard  from  her !  Did  she  want  money,  he  won- 
dered ?  It  would  be  intolerable  if,  because  of  his  marriage^ 
she  never  let  him  help  her  again.  And  all  the  while  Lady 
Constance's  unemotional,  careful,  little  voice  continued,  as 
did  the  ceaseless  murmur  of  London. 

"  I  remember,"  she  was  saying,  "  because  your  cousin  is 
quite  the  most  beautiful  person  I  have  ever  seen.  Papa  ad- 
mired her  very  much  too.  We  spoke  of  that  as  soon  as 
Louisa  had  left  us,  when  we  were  alone.  But  there  seemed 
to  me  so  many  staircases  at  Brockhurst,  and  rooms  opening 
one  out  of  the  other.  I  have  been  wondering — since — lately 
— whether  I  shall  ever  be  able  to  find  my  way  about  the 
house." 

"  I  will  show  you  your  way,"  Dickie  said  gently,  banishing 
the  vision  of  Helen  de  Vallorbes. 

"  You  will  show  it  me  ? "  the  girl  asked,  in  evident 
surprise. 

Then  a  companion  picture  to  that  of  Madame  de  Vallorbes 
arose  before  Dickie's  mental  vision — namely,  the  good-look- 
ing, long-legged,  young,  Irish  soldier,  Mr.  Decies,  of  the 
10 1st  Lancers,  flying  along  the  attic  passages  of  the  Whitney* 
bachelor's  wing,  in  company  with  this  immediately — so — 
demure  and  dutiful  maiden  and  all  the  rest  of  that  admittedly 
rather  uproarious,  holiday  throng.  Thereat  a  foolish  lump 
rose  in  poor  Richard's  throat,  for  he  too  was,  after  all,  but 
young.  He  choked  the  foolish  lump  down  again.  Yet  it 
left  his  voice  a  trifle  husky. 

"Yes,  I  will  show  you  your  way,"  he  said.  "I  can  man- 
age that  much,  you  know,  at  home,  in  private,  among  my 


360  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

own  people.  Only  you  mustn't  be  in  a  hurry.  I  have  to  take 
my  time.     You  must  not  mind  that.     I — I  go  slowly." 

"  But  that  will  be  much  better  for  me,"  she  answered,  with 
rather  humble  courtesy,  "  because  then  I  am  more  likely  to 
remember  my  way.  I  have  so  much  difficulty  in  knowing  my 
way.  I  still  lose  myself  sometimes  in  the  park  at  Whitney. 
I  did  once  this  winter  with — my  brother  Guy's  friend,  Mr. 
Decies.  The  boys  always  tease  me  about  losing  my  way. 
Even  papa  says  I  have  no  bump  of  locality.  I  am  afraid  I  am 
-Stupid  about  that.  My  governesses  always  complained  that  I 
was  a  very  thoughtless  child." 

Lady  Constance  unfolded  her  hands.  Her  timid,  en- 
gagingly vague  gaze  dwelt  appealingly  upon  Richard's  hand- 
some face. 

"I  think,  perhaps,  if  you  do  not  mind,  I  will  go  now,"  she 
said.  "  I  must  bid  Lady  Calmady  good-bye.  We  dine  at 
Lady  Combmartin's  to-night.  You  dine  there  too,  don't  you  ? 
And  my  sister  Louisa  may  want  me  to  drive  with  her,  or  write 
-some  notes,  before  I  dress." 

"  Wait  half  a  minute,"  Dickie  said.  "  I've  got  something 
;for  you.     Let's  see Oh  !  there  it  is  !  " 

Raising  himself  he  stood,  for  a  moment,  on  the  seat  of  the 
chair,  steadying  himself  with  one  hand  on  the  back  of  it,  and 
reached  a  little,  silver-paper  covered  parcel  from  the  neigh- 
bouring table.  Then  he  slipped  back  into  a  sitting  position, 
-drew  the  silken  blanket  up  across  his  thighs,  and  tossed  the 
little  parcel  gently  into  Lady  Constance  Quayle's  lap. 

"I  as  near  as  possible  let  you  go  without  it,"  he  said. 
*'  Not  that  it's  anything  very  wonderful.  It's  nothing — only 
I  saw  it  in  a  shop  in  Bond  Street  yesterday,  and  it  struck  me 
as  rather  quaint.  I  thought  you  might  like  it.  Why — but — 
Constance,  what's  the  matter  ?  " 

For  the  girl's  pretty,  heart-shaped  face  had  blanched  to  the 
whiteness  of  her  white  dress.  Her  eyes  were  strained,  as 
those  of  one  who  beholds  an  object  of  terror.  Not  only  her 
chin  but  her  round,  baby  mouth  quivered.  Richard  looked  at 
her,  amazed  at  these  evidences  of  distressing  emotion.  Then 
suddenly  he  understood. 

"  1  frighten  you.     How  horrible  !  "  he  said. 

But  little  Lady  Constance  had  not  suffered  persistent  train- 
ing at  the  hands  of  nurses,  and  governesses,  and  elder  sisters. 


A  SLIP  BETWIXT  CUP  AND  LIP  361 

during  all  her  eighteen  years  of  Innocent  living  for  nothing. 
She  had  her  own  small  code  of  manners  and  morals,  of  honour 
and  duty,  and  to  the  requirements  of  that  code,  as  she  appre- 
hended them,  she  yielded  unqualified  obedience,  not  unheroic 
in  its  own  meagre  and  rather  puzzle-headed  fashion.  So  that 
now,  notwithstanding  quivering  lips,  she  retained  her  intention 
of  civility  and  entered  immediate  apology  for  her  own  weakness. 

"  No,  no,  indeed  you  do  not,"  she  replied.  "  Please  for- 
give me.  I  know  I  was  very  foolish.  I  am  so  sorry.  You 
are  so  kind  to  me,  you  are  always  giving  me  beautiful  pres- 
ents, and  indeed  I  am  not  ungrateful.  Only  I  had  never 
seen — seen — you  like  that  before.  And,  please  forgive  me — 
I  will  never  be  foolish  again — indeed,  I  will  not.  But  I  was 
taken  by  surprise.  I  beg  your  pardon.  I  shall  be  so  dread- 
fully unhappy  if  you  do  not  forgive  me." 

And  all  the  while  her  trembling  hands  fumbled  helplessly 
with  the  narrow  ribbon  tying  the  dainty  parcel,  and  big  tears 
rolled  down  slowly  out  of  her  great,  soft,  wide-set,  heifer's 
eyes.  Never  was  there  more  moving  or  guileless  a  spectacle  ! 
Witnessing  which,  Richard  Calmady  was  taken  somewhat  out 
of  himself,  his  personal  misfortune  seeming  matter  inconsider- 
able, while  his  childlike  fiancee  had  never  appeared  more  en- 
gaging. All  the  sweetest  of  his  nature  responded  to  her  art- 
less appeal  in  very  tender  pity. 

"  Why,  my  dear  Constance,"  he  said,  "  there's  nothing  to 
forgive.  I  was  foolish,  not  you.  I  ought  to  have  known 
better.  Never  mind.  I  don't.  Only  wipe  your  pretty  eyes, 
please.  Yes — that's  better.  Now  let  me  break  that  tiresome 
ribbon  for  you." 

"You  are  very  kind  to  mc,"  the  girl  murmured.  Then,  as 
the  ribbon  broke  under  Richard's  strong  fingers,  and  the  deli- 
cate necklace  of  many,  roughly-cut,  precious  stones — topaz, 
amethyst,  sapphire,  ruby,  chrysolite,  and  beryl  joined  together, 
three  rows  deep,  by  slender,  golden  chains — slipped  from  the 
enclosing  paper  wrapping  into  her  open  hands,  Constance 
Quayle  added,  rather  tearfully : — "  Oh  !  you  are  much  too 
kind  !  You  give  me  too  many  things.  No  one  I  know  ever 
had  such  beautiful  presents.  The  cobs  you  told  me  of,  and 
now  this,  and  the  pearls,  and  the  tiara  you  gave  me  last  week. 
I — I  don't  deserve  it.  You  give  me  too  much,  and  I  givQ 
nothing:  in  return." 


362  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

"  Oh  yes,  you  do  !  "  Richard  said,  flushing.  "  You — you 
give  me  yourself." 

Lady  Constance's  tears  ceased.  Again  she  stared  at  him  in 
gentle  perplexity. 

"You  promise  to  marry  me " 

'^  Yes,  of  course,  I  have  promised  that,"  she  said  slowly. 

"  And  isn't  that  about  the  greatest  giving  there  can  be  ?  A 
fevi^  horses,  and  jewels,  and  such  rubbish  of  sorts,  weigh  pretty 
light  in  the  balance  against  that — I  being  I  " — Richard  paused 
a  moment — "  and  you — you." 

But  a  certain  ardour  which  had  come  into  his  speech,  for  all 
that  he  sat  very  still,  and  that  his  expression  was  wholly  gen- 
tle and  indulgent,  and  that  she  felt  a  comfortable  assurance 
that  he  was  not  angry  with  her,  rather  troubled  little  Lady 
Constance  Quayle.  She  rose  to  her  feet,  and  stood  before 
him  again,  as  a  child  about  to  recite  a  lesson. 

"  I  think,"  she  said,  "  I  must  go.  Louisa  may  want  me. 
Thank  you  so  much.  The  necklace  is  quite  lovely.  I  never 
saw  one  like  it.  I  like  so  many  colours.  They  remind  me 
of  flowers,  or  of  the  colours  at  sunset  in  the  sky.  I  shalMike 
to  wear  this  very  much.  You — you  will  forgive  me  for  hav- 
ing been  foolish — or  if  I  have  bored  you  ?  " 

Her  bosom  rose  and  fell,  and  the  words  came  breathlessly, 

"  I  shall  see  you  at  Lady  Combmartin's  ?  So — so  now  I 
will  go." 

And  with  that  she  departed,  leaving  Richard  more  in  love 
with  her,  somehow,  than  he  had  ever  been  before  or  had  ever 
thought  to  be. 


CHAPTER  VI 

IN    WHICH    HONORIA    ST.    QUENTIN    TAKES    THE    FIELD 


I 


T  had  been  agreed  that  the  marriage  should  take  place,  in 
the  country,  one  day  in  the  first  week  of  August.  This 
at  Richard's  request.  Then  the  young  man  asked  a  further 
favour,  namely,  that  the  ceremony  might  be  performed  in  the 
private  chapel  at  Brockhurst,  rather  than  in  the  Whitney  par- 
ish church.     This  last  proposal,  it  must  be  owned,  when  made 


A  SLIP  BETWIXT  CUP  AND  LIP  363 

to  him  by  Lady  Calmady,  caused  Lord  Fallowfeild  great  search- 
iags  of  heart. 

"^  I  give  you  my  word^  my  dear  boy,  I  never  felt  more 
awkward  in  my  life,"  he  said,  subsequently,  to  his  chosen 
confidant,  Shotover.  "  Can  quite  understand  Calmady  doesn't 
care  to  court  publicity.  Told  his  mother  I  quite  understood. 
Shouldn't  care  to  court  it  myself  if  I  had  the  misfortune  to 
share  his — well,  personal  peculiarities,  don't  you  know,  poor 
young  fellow.  Still  this  seems  to  me  an  uncomfortable,  hole 
and  corner  sort  of  way  of  behaving  to  one's  daughter — marry- 
ing her  at  his  house  instead  of  from  my  own.  I  don't  half 
approve  of  it.  Looks  a  little  as  if  we  were  rather  ashamed  of 
the  whole  business."  il. 

"  Well,  perhaps  we  are,"  Lord  Shotover  remarked. 

*'  For  God's  sake,  then,  don't  mention  it !  "  the  elder  man 
broke  out,  with  unprecedented  asperity.  '^  Don't  approve  of 
strong  language,"  he  added  hastily.  "  Never  did  approve  of 
it,  and  very  rarely  employ  it  myself.  An  educated  man  ought 
to  be  able  to  express  himself  quite  sufficiently  clearly  without 
having  recourse  to  it.  Still,  I  must  own  this  engagement  of  ; 
Constance's  has  upset  me  more  than  almost  any  event  of  my 
life.  Nastv,  anxious  work  marrying  your  daughters.  Heavy 
responsibility  marrying  your  daughters.  And,  as  to  this  par- 
ticular marriage,  there's  so  very  much  to  be  said  on  both  ;, 
sides.  And  I  admit  to  you,  Shotover,  if  there's  anything  I 
hate  it's  a  case  where  there's  very  much  to  be  said  on  both 
sides.  It  trips  you  up,  you  see,  at  every  turn.  Then  I  feel 
I  was  not  fairly  treated.  I  don't  wish  to  be  hard  on  your 
brother  Ludovic  and  your  sisters,  but  they  sprung  it  upon  me, 
and  I  am  not  quick  in  argument,  never  was  quick,  if  I  am 
hurried.  Never  can  be  certain  of  my  own  mind  when  I  am 
hurried — was  not  certain  of  it  when  Lady  Calmady  proposed 
that  the  marriage  should  be  at  Brockhurst.  And  sq\J  gave 
way.  Must  be  accommodating  to  a  woman,  yoii  know. 
Always  have  been  accommodating  to  women — got  myself  into 
uncommonly  tight  places  by  being  so  more  than  once  when  I 
was  younger " 

Here  the  speaker  cheered  up  visibly,  contemplating  his 
favourite  son  with  an  air  at  once  humorous  and  contrite. 

"  You're  well  out  of  it,  you  know,  Shotover,  with  no  ties," 
he   continued,  "  at  least,  I   mean,  with   no  wife  and   family. 


364  SIR  RICHARD  CALiMADY 

Not  that  I  don't  consider  every  man  owning  property  should 
marry  sooner  or  later.  More  respectable  if  youVe  got  prop- 
erty to  marry,  roots  you  in  the  soil,  gives  you  a  stake,  you 
know,  in  the  future  of  the  country.  But  Pd  let  it  be  later — yes,, 
thinking  of  marriageable  daughters,  certainly  Td  let  it  be  later." 

From  which  it  may  be  gathered  that  Richard's  demands: 
were  conceded  at  all  points.  And  this  last  concession  involved 
many  preparations  at  Brockhurst,  to  effect  which  Lady  Cal~ 
mady  left  London  with  the  bulk  of  the  household  about  the 
middle  of  July,  while  Richard  remained  in  Lowndes  Square 
and  the  neighbourhood  of  his  little  Jjancee — in  company  with  a 
few  servants  and  many  brown  holland  covers — till  such  time 
as  that  young  lady  should  also  depart  to  the  country.  It  was 
just  now  that  Lady  Louisa  Barking  gave  her  annual  ball, 
always  one  of  the  latest,  and  this  year  one  of  the  smartest, 
festivities  of  the  season. 

*^  I  mean  it  to  be  exceedingly  well  done,"  she  said  to  her 
sister  Alicia.  "  And  Mr.  Barking  entirely  agrees  with  me.  I 
feel  I  owe  it  not  only  to  myself,  but  to  the  rest  of  the  family 
to  show  that  none  of  us  see  anything  extraordinary  in  Connie's 
marriage,  and  that  whatever  Shotover's  debts  may  have  been, 
or  may  be,  they  are  really  no  concern  at  all  of  ours." 

In  obedience  to  which  laudable  determination  the  handsome 
mansion  in  Albert  Gate  opened  wide  its  portals,  and  all  London 
— a  far  from  despicable  company  in  numbers,  since  Parliament 
was  still  sitting  and  the  session  promised  to  be  rather  indefi- 
nitely prolonged — crowded  its  fine  stairways  and  suites  of 
lofty  rooms,  resplendent  in  silks  and  satins,  jewels  and  laces, 
in  orders  and  titles,  and  manifold  personal  distinctions  of 
wealth,  or  office,  or  beauty,  while  strains  of  music  and  scent 
of  flowers  pervaded  the  length  and  breadth  of  it,  and  the  feet 
of  the  dancers  sped  over  its  shining  floors. 

It  chanced  that  Honoria  St.  Quentin  found  herself,  on  this 
occasion,  in  a  meditative,  rather  than  an  active,  mood.  True, 
the  scene  was  remarkably  brilliant.  But  she  had  witnessed 
too  many  parallel  scenes  to  be  very  much  affected  by  that. 
So  it  pleased  her  fancy  to  moralise,  to  discriminate — not  with- 
out a  delicate  sarcasm — between  actualities  and  appearances, 
between  the  sentiments  which  might  be  divined  really  to  animate 
many  of  the  guests,  and  those  conventional  presentments  of 
sentiment  which   the  manner  and  bearing  of  the  said  guests 


A  SLIP  BETWIXT  CUP  AND  LIP  365 

indicated.  She  assured  Lord  Shotover  she  would  rather  not 
dance,  that  she  preferred  the  attitude  of  spectator,  whereupon 
that  gentleman  proposed  to  her  to  take  sanctuary  in  a  certain 
ante-chamber,  opening  off  Lady  Louisa  Barking's  boudoir, 
which  was  cool,  dimly  lighted,  and  agreeably  remote  from  the 
turmoil  of  the  entertainment  now  at  its  height. 

The  acquaintance  of  these  two  persons  was,  in  as  far  as 
time  and  the  number  of  their  meetings  went,  but  slight,  and, 
at  first  sight,  their  tastes  and  temperaments  would  seem  wide 
asunder  as  the  poles.  But  contrast  can  form  a  strong  bond 
of  union.  And  the  young  man,  when  his  fancy  was  engaged, 
was  among  those  who  do  not  waste  time  over  preliminaries. 
If  pleased,  he  bundled,  neck  and  crop,  into  intimacy.  And 
Miss  St.  Quentin,  her  fearless  speech,  her  amusingly  detached 
attitude  of  mind,  and  her  gallant  bearing,  pleased  him  mightily 
from  a  certain  point  of  view.  He  pronounced  her  to  be  a 
*' first-rate  sort,"  and  entertained  a  shrewd  suspicion  that,  as 
he  put  it,  Ludovic  "  was  after  her."  He  commended  his 
brother's  good  taste.  He  considered  she  would  make  a  tip- 
top sister-in-law.  While  the  young  lady,  on  her  part,  accepted 
his  advances  in  a  friendly  spirit.  His  fraternal  attitude  and 
unfailing  good-temper  diverted  her.  His  rather  doubtful  repu- 
tation piqued  her  curiosity.  She  accepted  the  general  verdict, 
declaring  him  to  be  good-for-nothing,  while  she  enjoyed  the 
conviction  that,  rake  or  no  rake,  he  was  incapable  of  causing 
her  the  smallest  annoyance,  or  being  guilty, — as  far  as  she 
herself  was  concerned, — of  the  smallest  indiscretion. 

"  You  know,  Miss  St.  Quentin,"  he  remarked,  as  he 
established  himself  comfortably,  not  to  say  cosily,  on  a  sofa 
beside  her, — "over  and  above  the  pleasure  of  a  peaceful  little 
talk  with  you,  I  am  not  altogether  sorry  to  seek  retirement. 
You  see,  between  ourselves,  I'm  not,  unfortunately,  in  exactly 
good  odour  with  some  members  of  the  family  just  now.  I 
Son't  think  I'm  shy " 

Honoria  smiled  at  him  through  the  dimness. 

"  I  don't  think  you're  shy,"  she  said. 

"  Well,  you  know,  when  you  come  to  consider  it  from  an 
unprejudiced  standpoint,  what  the  dickens  is  the  use  of  being 
shy?     It's  only  an  inverted  kind  of  conceit  at  best,  and  half 
the  time  it  makes  you  stand  in  your  own  light." 
^     "  Clearly  it's  a  mistake  every  way,"  the  young  lady  asserted. 


366  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

"  And,  happily,  it's  one  of  which  I  can  entirely  acquit  you  of 
being  guilty." 

Lord  Shotover  threw  back  his  head  and  looked  sideways  at 
his  companion. — Wonderfully,  graceful  woman  she  was  cer« 
tainly  !  Gave  you  the  feeling  she'd  all  the  time  there  was  or 
ever  would  be.  Delightful  thing  to  see  a  woman  who  was 
never  in  a  hurry. 

"  No,  honestly  I  don't  believe  I'm  weak  in  the  way  of  shy- 
ness," he  continued.  "  If  I  had  been,  I  shouldn't  be  here 
to-night.  My  sister  Louisa  didn't  press  me  to  come.  Strange 
as  it  may  appear  to  you,  Miss  St.  Quentin,  I  give  you  my 
word  she  didn't.  Nor  has  she  regarded  me  with  an  exactly 
favourable  eye  since  my  arrival.  I  am  not  abashed,  not  a  bit. 
But  I  can't  disguise  from  myself  that  again  I  have  gone,  and 
been,  and  jolly  well  put  my  foot  in  it." 

He  whistled  very  softly  under  his  breath. — "  Oh  !  I  have,  I 
promise  you,  even  on  the  most  modest  computation,  very  ex- 
tensively and  comprehensively  put  my  foot  in  it !  " 

''  How  ?  "  inquired  Honoria. 

Lord  Shotover's  confidences  invariably  amused  her,  and  just 
now  she  welcomed  amusement.  For  crossing  her  hostess* 
boudoir  she  had  momentarily  caught  sight  of  that  which 
changed  the  speculative  sarcasm  of  her  meditations  to  some- 
thing approaching  pain — namely,  a  pretty,  wide-eyed,  childish 
face  rising  from  out  a  cloud  of  white  tulle,  white  roses,  and 
diamonds,  the  expression  of  which  had  seemed  to  her  distress- 
ingly remote  from  all  the  surrounding  gaiety  and  splendour. 
Actualities  and  appearances  here  were  surely  radically  at  vari- 
ance  ?  And,  now,  she  smilingly  turned  on  her  elbow  and 
made  brief  inquiry  of  her  companion,  promising  herself  good 
measure  of  superficial  entertainment  which  should  serve  to 
banish  that  pathetic  countenance,  and  allay  her  suspicion  of  a 
sorrowful  happening  which  she  was  powerless  alike  to  hinder 
or  to  help. 

Lord  Shotover  pushed  his  hands  into  his  trousers  pockets^ 
leaned  far  back  on  the  sofa,  turning  his  head  so  that  he  could 
look  at  her  comfortably  without  exertion  and  chuckling,  a  lit- 
tle, as  he  spoke, 

"  Well,  you  see,"  he  said,  "  I  brought  Decies.  No,  you're 
right,  I'm  not  shy,  for  to  do  that  was  a  bit  of  the  most  bare- 
faced cheek.     My  sister  Louisa  hadn't  asked  him.     Of  course 


A  SLIP  BETWIXT  CUP  AND  LIP  367 

she  hadn't.  At  bottom  she's  awfully  afraid  he  may  still  upset 
the  apple-cart.  But  I  told  her  I  knew,  of  course,  she  had  in- 
tended to  ask  him,  and  that  the  letter  must  have  got  lost  some- 
how in  the  post,  and  that  I  knew  how  glad  she'd  be  to  have 
me  rectify  the  little  mistake.  My  manner  was  not  jaunty,  - 
Miss  St.  Quentin,  or  defiant — not  a  bit  of  it.  It  was  frank, 
manly,  I  should  call  it  manly  and  pleasing.  But  Louisa  didn't 
seem  to  see  it  that  way  somehow.  She  withered  me,  she 
scorched  me,  reduced  me  to  a  cinder,  though  she  never  uttered 
one  blessed  syllable.  The  hottest  corner  of  the  infernal  re- 
gions resided  in  my  sister's  eye  at  that  moment,  and  I  resided 
in  that  hottest  corner,  I  tell  you.  Of  course  I  knew  I  risked 
losing  the  last  rag  of  her  regard  when  I  brought  Decies.  But 
you  see,  poor  chap,  it  is  awfully  rough  on  him.  He  was 
making  the  running  all  through  the  winter.  I  could  not  help 
feeling  for  him,  so  I  chucked  discretion ^"i- 

"For  the  first  and  only  time  in  your  life,"  put  in  Honoria  ; 
gently.  "  And  pray  who  and  what  is  this  disturber  of  do-  - 
mestic  peace,  Decies  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  you  know  the  whole  affair  grows  out  of  this  engage- 
ment of  my  little  sister  Connie's.  By  the  way,  though,  the 
Calmadys  are  great  friends  of  yours,  aren't  they.  Miss  St. 
Quentin  ?  " 

The  young  man  regarded  her  anxiously,  fearful  least  he 
should  have  endangered  the  agreeable  intimacy  of  their  present 
relation  by  the  introduction  of  an  unpalatable  subject  of  con- 
versation.. Even  in  this  semi-obscurity  he  perceived  that  her 
fine  smile  had  vanished,  while  the  lines  of  her  sensitive  face 
took  on  a  certain  rigidity  and  effect  of  sternness.  Lord  Shot- 
over  regretted  that.  For  some  reason,  he  knew  not  what,  she 
was  displeased.     He,  like  an  ass,  evidently  had  blundered. 

"I'm  awfully  sorry,"  he  began,  "  perhaps — perhaps " 

"Perhaps  it  is  very  impertinent  for  a  mere  looker-on  like 
myself  to  have  any  views  at  all  about  this  marriage,"  Honoria 
put  in  quickly. 

"  Bless  you,  no,  it's  not,"  he  answered.  "  I  don't  see  how 
anybody  can  very  well  be  off  having  views  about  it — that's 
just  the  nuisance.  The  whole  thing  shouts,  confound  it. 
So  you  might  just  as  well  let  me  hear  your  views.  Miss  St. 
Quentin.  I  should  be  awfully  interested.  They  might  help 
to  strai[;hten  my  own  out  a  bit." 


368  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

Honoria  paused  a  moment,  doubting  how  much  of  hei 
thought  it  would  be  justifiable  to  confide  to  her  companion. 
A  certain  vein  of  knight-errantry  in  her  character  inclined  her 
to  set  lance  in  rest  and  ride  forth,  rather  recklessly,  to  redress 
human  wrongs.  But  in  redressing  one  wrong  it  too  often 
happens  that  another  wrong — or  something  perilously  ap- 
proaching one — must  be  inflicted.  To  save  pain  in  one  direc- 
tion is,  unhappily,  to  inflict  pain  in  the  opposite  one.  Honoria 
was  aware  how  warmly  Lady  Calmady  desired  this  marriage. 
She  loved  Lady  Calmady.  Therefore  her  loyalty  was  en^ 
gaged,  and  yet 

"I  am  no  match-maker,"  she  said  at  last,  "and  so  probably 
my  view  is  unnecessarily  pessimistic.  But  I  happened  to  see 
Lady  Constance  just  now,  and  I  cannot  pretend  that  she 
struck  me  as  looking  conspicuously  happy." 

Lord  Shotover  flattened  his  shoulders  against  the  back  of 
the  sofa,  expanding  his  chest  and  thrusting  his  hands  still 
farther  into  his  pockets  with  a  movement  at  once  of  anxiety 
and  satisfaction. 

^'  I  don't  believe  she  is,"  he  asserted.  "  Upon  my  word 
you're  right.  I  don't  believe  she  is.  I  doubted  it  from  the 
first,  and  now  I'm  pretty  certain.  Of  course  I  know  I'm  a 
bad  lot.  Miss  St.  Quentin.  I've  been  very  little  but  a  con- 
founded nuisance  to  my  people  ever  since  I  was  born. 
They're  all  ten  thousand  times  better  than  I  am,  and  they're 
doing  what  they  honestly  think  right.  All  the  same  I  believe 
they're  making  a  ghastly  mistake.  They're  selling  the  poor, 
little  girl  against  her  will,  that's  about  the  long  and  short  of 
it." 

He  bowed  himself  together,  looking  at  his  companion  from 
under  his  eyebrows,  and  speaking  with  more  seriousness  than 
she  had  ever  heard  him  yet  speak. 

"  I  tell  you  it  makes  me  a  little  sick  sometimes  to  see  what 
excellent,  well-meaning  people  will  do  with  girls  in  respect  of 
marriage.  Oh,  good  Lord  !  it  just  does  !  But  then  a  high 
moral  tone  doesn't  come  quite  gracefully  from  me.  I  know 
that.  I'm  jolly  well  out  of  it.  It's  not  for  me  to  preach. 
And  so  I  thought  for  once  I'd  act — defy  authority,  risk  land- 
ing myself  in  a  worse  mess  than  ever,  and  give  Decies  his 
chance.  And  I  tell  you  he  really  is  a  charming  chap,  a  gen- 
tleman, you  know,  and  a  nice,  clean-minded,  decent  fellow — 


A  SLIP  BETWIXT  CUP  AND  LIP  369 

mot  like  me,  not  a  bit.  He's  awfully  hard  hit  too,  and  would 
be  as  steady  as  old  time  for  poor  little  Con's  sake  if " 

"Ah  !  now  I  begin  to  comprehend,"  Honoria  said. 

"  Yes,  don't  you  see,  it's  a  perfectly  genuine,  for-ever-and- 
ever-amen  sort  of  business." 

Lord  Shotover  leaned  back  once  more,  and  turned  a  wonder- 
fully pleasant,  if  not  preeminently  responsible,  countenance 
upon  his  companion. 

"I  never  went  in  for  that  kind  of  racket  myself.  Miss  St. 
Quentin,"  he  continued.  "Not  being  conspicuously  faithful, 
I  should  only  have  made  a  fiasco  of  it.  But  I  give  you  my 
word  it  touches  me  all  the  same  when  I  do  run  across  it.  I 
think  it's  awfully  lucky  for  a  man  to  be  made  that  way.  And 
Decies  is.  So  there  seemed  no  help  for  it.  I  had  to  chuck 
discretion,  as  I  told  you,  and  give  him  his  chance." 

He  paused,  and  then  asked  with  ^  somewhat  humorous  air 
of  self-depreciation : — "  What  do  you  think  now,  have  I  done 
more  harm  than  good,  made  confusion  worse  confounded,  and 
played  the  fool  generally  ?  " 

But  again  Honoria  vouchsafed  him  no  immediate  reply. 
The  meditative  mood  still  held  her,  and  the  present  conversa- 
tion offered  much  food  for  meditation.  Her  companion's 
confession  of  faith  in  true  love,  if  you  had  the  good  fortune 
to  be  born  that  way,  had  startled  hen  That  the  speaker  en- 
joyed the  reputation  of  being  something  of  a  profligate  lent 
singular  point  to  that  confession.  She  had  not  expected  it 
from  Lord  Shotover,  of  all  men.  And,  as  coming  from  him, 
the  sentiment  was  in  a  high  degree  arresting  and  interesting. 
Her  own  ideals,  so  far,  had  a  decidedly  anti-matrimonial 
tendency,  while  being  in  love  appeared  to  her  a  much  over- 
rated, if  not  actively  objectionable,  condition.  Personally  she 
hoped  to  escape  all  experience  of  it.  Then  her  thought 
traveled  back  to  Lady  Calmady, — the  charm  of  her  personality, 
her  sorrows,  her  splendid  self-devotion,  and  to  the  object  of 
that  devotion — namely,  Richard  Calmady,  a  being  of  strange 
contrasts,  at  once  maimed  and  beautiful,  a  being  from  whom 
she — Honoria — shrank  in  instinctive  repulsion,  while  unwill- 
ingly acknowledging  that  he  exercised  a  permament  and  inti- 
mate fascination  over  her  imagination.  She  dwelt,  in  quick 
pity,  too,  upon  the  frightened,  wide-eyed,  childish  face  recently 
seen  rising  from  out  its  diaphanous  cloud  of  tulle,  the  pretti- 


370  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

ness  of  it  heightened  by  fair  wealth  of  summer  roses  and  flash 
of  costly  diamonds,  and  upon  Mr.  Decies,  the  whole-hearted, 
young  soldier  lover,  whose  existence  threatened  such  danger- 
ous complications  in  respect  of  the  rest  of  this  strangely  as- 
sorted company.  Finally  her  meditative  survey  returned  to  its 
point  of  departure.  In  thought  she  surveyed  her  present  com- 
panion,— his  undeniable  excellence  of  sentiment  and  clear- 
seeing,  his  admittedly  defective  conduct  in  matters  ethical  and 
financial.  Never  before  had  she  been  at  such  close  quarters 
with  living  and  immediate  human  drama,  and,  notwithstanding 
her  detachment,  her  lofty  indifference  and  high-spirited 
theories,  she  found  it  profoundly  agitating.  She  was  sensible 
of  being  in  collision  with  unknown  and  incalculable  forces. 
Instinctively  she  rose  from  her  place  on  the  sofa,  and,  moving 
to  the  open  window,  looked  out  into  the  night. 

Below,  the  Park,  now  silent  and  deserted,  slept  peacefully, 
as  any  expanse  of  remote  country  pasture  and  woodland,  in 
the  mildly  radiant  moonlight.  Here  and  there  were  blottings 
of  dark  shadow  cast  by  the  clumps  or  avenues  of  trees.  Here 
and  there  the  timid,  yellow  flame  of  gas  lamps  struggled  to  as- 
sert itself  against  the  all-embracing  silver  brightness.  Here 
and  there  windows  glowed  warm,  set  in  the  pale,  glistering  fa- 
cades of  the  adjacent  houses.  A  cool,  light  wind,  hailing  from 
the  direction  of  the  unseen  Serpentine,  stirred  the  hanging 
clusters  of  the  pink  geraniums  that  fell  over  the  curved  lip  of 
the  stone  vases,  standing  along  the  broad  coping  of  the  bal- 
cony, and  gently  caressed  the  girl's  bare  arms  and  shoulders. 

Seen  under  these  unaccustomed  conditions  familiar  objects 
assumed  a  fantastic  aspect.  For  the  night  is  a  mighty  magi- 
cian, with  power  to  render  even  the  weighty  brick  and  stone, 
even  the  hard,  uncomprising  outlines  of  a  monster,  modern 
city,  delicately  elusive,  mockingly  tentative  and  unsubstantial. 
Meanwhile,  within,  from  all  along  the  vista  of  crowded  and 
brilliantly  illuminated  rooms,  came  the  subdued,  yet  confused 
and  insistent,  sound  of  musical  instruments,  of  many  voices, 
many  footsteps,  the  hush  of  women's  trailing  garments,  the 
rise  and  fall  of  unceasing  conversation.  And  to  Honoria 
standing  in  this  quiet,  dimly-seen  place,  the  sense  of  that  moon- 
lit world  without,  and  this  gas  and  candle-iit  world  within, 
increased  the  nameless  agitation  which  infected  her.  A  haunt- 
ing persuasion  of  the  phantasmagoric  character  of  all  sounds 


A  SUP  BETWIXT  CUP  AND  LIP  371 

that  saluted  her  ears,  all  sights  that  met  her  eyes,  possessed 
her.  A  vast  uncertainty  surrounded  and  pressed  in  on  her, 
while  those  questionings  of  appearances  and  actualities,  of 
truth  and  falsehood,  right  and  wrong,  justice  and  injustice, 
with  which  she  had  played  idly  earlier  in  the  evening,  took  on 
new  and  almost  terrible  proportions,  causing  her  intelligence, 
nay,  her  heart  itself,  to  reach  out,  as  never  before,  in  search 
of  some  sure  rock  and  house  of  defense  against  the  disintegrat- 
ing apprehension  of  universal  instability  and  illusion. 

"  Ah  !  it  is  all  very  difficult,  difficult  to  the  point  of  alarm  !  '* 
she  exclaimed  suddenly,  turning  to  Lord  Shotover  and  looking 
him  straight  in  the  face,  with  an  unself-consciousness  and  de- 
sire of  support  so  transparent,  that  that  gentleman  found  him- 
self at  once  delighted  and  slightly  abashed. 

''  Bless  my  soul,  but  Ludovic  is  a  lucky  devil !  "  he  said  to 
himself. — "What's — what's  so  beastly  difficult.  Miss  St. 
Quentin  ? "  he  asked  aloud.  And  the  sound  of  his  cheery 
voice  recalled  Honoria  to  the  normal  aspects  of  existence  with 
almost  humorous  velocity.     She  smiled  upon  him. 

"  I  really  believe  I  don't  quite  know,"  she  said.  "  Perhaps 
that  the  two  people,  of  whom  we  were  speaking,  really  care 
for  each  other,  and  that  this  engagement  has  come  between 
them,  and  that  you  have  chucked  discretion  and  given  him  his 
chance.  Tell  me,  what  sort  of  man  is  he — strong  enough  to 
make  the  most  of  his  chance  when  he's  got  it  ?  " 

But  at  that  moment  Lord  Shotover  stepped  forward,  adroitly 
planting  himself  right  in  front  of  her  and  thus  screening  her 
from  observation. 

"  By  George  ! "  he  said  under  his  breath,  in  tones  of  min- 
gled amusement  and  consternation,  "  he's  making  the  most  of 
his  chance  now  Miss  St.  Quentin,  and  that  most  uncommonly 
comprehensively,  unless  Fm  very  much  mistaken." 

Her  companion's  tall  person  and  the  folds  of  a  heavy  cur- 
tain, while  screening  Honoria  from  observation,  also,  in  great 
measure,  obscured  her  view  of  the  room.  Yet  not  so  com- 
pletely but  that  she  saw  two  figures  cross  it,  one  black,  one 
white,  those  of  a  man  and  a  girl.  They  were  both  speaking, 
the  man  apparently  pleading,  the  girl  protesting  and  moving 
hurriedly,  the  while,  as  though  in  actual  flight.  She  must 
have  been  moving  blindly,  at  random,  for  she  stumbled  against 
the  outstanding,  gilded  leg  of  a  consol  table,  set  against  the 


37^  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

furthef  wall,  causing  the  ornaments  on  it  to  rattle.  And  sd 
doing,  she  gave  a  plaintive  exclamation  of  alarm,  perhaps  even 
of  physical  pain.  Hearing  which,  that  nameless  agitation, 
that  sense  of  collision  with  unknown  and  incalculable  forces, 
seized  hold  on  Honoria  again,  while  Lord  Shotover's  features 
contracted  and  he  turned  his  head  sharply. 

*^  By  George  !  "  he  repeated  under  his  breath. 

But  the  girl  recovered  herself,  and,  followed  by  her  com- 
panion,— he  still  pleading,  she  still  protesting, — passed  by  the 
further  window  on  to  the  balcony  and  out  of  sight.  There 
followed  a  period  of  embarrassed  silence  on  the  part  of  the 
usually  voluble  Shotover,  while  his  pleasant  countenance  ex- 
pressed a  certain  half-humorous  concern. 

"  Really,  Fm  awfully  sorry,"  he  said.  ''I'd  not  the  slight- 
est intention  of  landing  you  in  for  the  thick  of  the  brown  like 
this." 

"  Or  yourself  either,"  she  replied,  smiling,  though,  with  that 
sense  of  nameless  agitation  still  upon  her,  her  heart  beat  rather 
quick. 

"  Well,  perhaps  not.  Between  ourselves,  moral  courage 
isn't  my  strong  point.  There's  nothing  I  funk  like  a  row.  I 
say,  what  shall  we  do  ?  Don't  you  think  we'd  better  quietly 
clear  out  ?  " 

But  just  then  a  sound  caught  Honoria's  ear  before  which  all 
vague  questions  of  ultimate  truth  and  falsehood,  right  and 
wrong  fled  away.  Whatever  might  savour  of  illusion,  here 
was  something  real  and  actual,  something  pitiful,  moreover, 
arousing  the  spirit  of  knight-errantry  in  her,  pushing  her  to  lay 
lance  in  rest  and  go  forth,  reckless  of  conventionalities,  reck- 
less even  of  considerations  of  justice,  to  the  succour  of  op- 
pressed womanhood.  What  words  the  man,  on  the  balcony 
without,  was  saying  she  could  not  distinguish — whether  cruel 
or  kind,  but  that  the  young  girl  was  weeping,  with  the  aban- 
donment of  long-resisted  tears,  she  could  not  doubt. 

"  No,  no,  listen  Lord  Shotover,"  she  exclaimed  authorita- 
tively. "  Don't  you  hear?  She  is  crying  as  if  her  poor  heart 
would  break.  You  must  stay.  If  I  understand  you  rightly 
your  sister  has  only  got  you  to  depend  on.  Whatever  hap- 
pens you  must  stand  by  her  and  see  her  through." 

"  Oh  !  but,  my  dear  Miss  St.  Quentin "     The  young 

man's  aspect  was  entertaining.     He  looked  at  the  floor,  he 


A  SLIP  BETWIXT  CtfP  AND  LIP  373 

looked  at  Honoria,  he  rubbed  the  back  of  his  neck  with  one 
hand  as  though  there  might  be  placed  the  seat  of  fortitude. 
*' You're  inviting  me  to  put  my  head  into  the  liveliest  hornet's 
nest.  What  the  deuce — excuse  me — am  I  to  say  to  her  and 
all  the  rest  of  them  ?  Decies,  even,  mayn't  quite  understand 
my  interference  and  may  resent  it.  I  think  it  is  very  much 
safer,  all  round,  to  let  them — him  and  her — thrash  it  out  be- 
tween them,  don't  you  know.  I  say  though,  what  a  beastly 
thing  it  is  to  hear  a  woman  cry  !  I  wish  to  goodness  we'd 
never  come  into  this  confounded  place  and  let  ourselves  in  for 
it." 

As  he  spoke.  Lord  Shotover  turned  towards  the  door,  medi- 
tating escape  in  the  direction  of  that  brilliant  vista  of  crowded 
rooms.  But  Honoria  St.  Quentin,  her  enthusiasm  once 
aroused,  became  inexorable.  With  her  long  swinging  stride 
she  outdistanced  his  hesitating  steps,  and  stood,  in  the  door- 
way, her  arms  extended — as  to  stop  a  runaway  horse — her 
clear  eyes  aglow  as  though  a  lamp  burned  behind  them,  her 
pale,  delicately  cut  face  eloquent  of  very  militant  charity.  A 
spice  of  contempt,  moreover,  for  his  display  of  pusillanimity 
was  quite  perceptible  to  Shotover  in  the  expression  of  this 
charming,  modern  angel,  clad  in  a  ball-dress,  bearing  a  fan  in- 
stead of  the  traditional  fiery-sword,  who,  so  determinedly, 
barred  the  entrance  of  that  comfortably  conventional,  worldly 
paradise  to  which  he,  just  now,  so  warmly  desired  to  regain 
admittance. 

"  No,  no,"  she  said,  with  a  certain  vibration  in  her  quiet 
voice,  "  you  are  not  to  go  !  You  are  not  to  desert  her.  It 
would  be  unworthy.  Lord  Shotover.  You  brought  Mr.  Decies 
here  and  so  you  are  mainly  responsible  for  the  present  situa- 
tion. And  think,  just  think  what  it  means.  All  the  course 
of  her  life  will  be  affected  by  that  which  takes  place  in  the 
next  half-hour.  You  would  never  cease  to  reproach  yourself 
if  things  went  wrong." 

"  Shouldn't  I  ? "  the  young  man  said  dubiously. 

*'  Of  course  you  wouldn't,"  Honoria  asserted.  "  Having 
it  in  your  power  to  help,  and  then  shirking  the  responsibility  ! 
I  won't  believe  that  of  you.  You  are  better  than  that.  For 
think  how  young  she  is,  and  pretty  and  dependent.  She  may 
be  driven  to  do  some  fatally,  foolish  thing  if  she's  left  un- 
supported     You  must  at  least  know  what  is  going  on.     You 


374  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

are  bound  to  do  so.  Moreover,  as  a  mere  matter  of  courtesy, 
yoii  can't  desert  me  and  I  intend  to  stay/* 

"  Do  you,  though  ?  '*  faltered  Lord  Shotover,  in  tones  curi- 
ously resembling  his  father's. 

Honoria  drew  herself  up  proudly,  almost  scornfully.  \^ 

"  Yes,  I  shall  stay,"  she  continued.  "  I  am  no  match- 
maker. I  have  no  particular  faith  in  or  admiration  for  mar- 
riage  " 

"  Haven't  you,  though  ? "  said  Lord  Shotover.  He  was 
slightly  surprised,  slightly  amused,  but  to  his  credit  be  it  stated 
that  he  put  no  equivocal  construction  upon  the  young  lady's 
frank  avowal.  He  felt  a  little  sorry  for  Ludovic,  that  was  all, 
fearing  the  latter's  good  fortune  was  less  fully  established  than 
he  had  supposed. 

"  No,  I  don't  believe  very  much  in  marriage — modern, 
upper-class  marriage,"  she  repeated.  "And,  just  precisely  on 
that  account,  it  seems  to  me  all  the  more  degrading  and 
shameful  that  a  girl  should  risk  marrying  the  wrong  man. 
People  talk  about  a  broken  engagement  as  though  it  was  a  dis~ 
grace.  I  can't  see  that.  An  unwilling,  a — a — loveless  mar- 
riage is  the  disgrace.  And  so  at  the  very  church  door  I  would 
urge  and  encourage  a  woman  to  turn  back,  if  she  doubted,  and 
have  done  with  the  whole  thing." 

"  Upon  my  word  !  "  murmured  Lord  Shotover. — The  in* 
finite  variety  of  the  feminine  outlook,  the  unqualified  audacity 
of  feminine  action,  struck  him  as  bewildering.  Talk  of  wom- 
en's want  of  logic !  It  was  their  relentless  application  of 
logic — as  they  apprehended  it — which  staggered  him. 

Honoria  had  come  close  to  him.  In  her  excitement  she 
laid  her  fan  on  his  arm. 

"  Listen,"  she  said,  "listen  how  Lady  Constance  is  crying. 
Come — you  must  know  what  is  happening.  You  must  com- 
fort her." 

The  young  man  thrust  his  hands  into  his  pockets  with  an 
air  of  good-humoured  and  despairing  resignation. 

"  All  right,"  he  replied,  "  only  I  tell  you  what  it  is,  Miss  St. 
Quentin,  you've  got  to  come  too.     I  refuse  to  be  deserted." 

"  I  have  not  the  smallest  intention  of  deserting  you," 
Honoria  said.  "  Even  yet  discretion,  though  so  lately 
chucked,  might  return  to  you.  And  then  you  might  cut  and 
run,  don't  you  know." 


A  SLIP  BETWIXT  CUP  AND  LIP  375 


CHAPTER  VII 

RECORDING   THE    ASTONISHING   VALOUR    DISPLAYED    BY   A  CER* 
TAIN  SMALL  MOUSE  IN  A  CORNER 

A  S  Honoria  St.  Quentin  and  the  reluctant  Shotover  stepped, 
"^^  side  by  side,  from  the  warmth  and  dimness  obtaining  in 
the  anteroom,  into  the  pleasant  coolness  of  the  moonlit  bal- 
cony. Lady  Constance  Quayle,  altogether  forgetful  of  her 
usual  careful  civility  and  pretty  correctness  of  demeanour, 
uttered  an  inarticulate  cry — a  cry,  indeed,  hardly  human  in  its 
abandon  and  unreasoning  anguish,  resembling  rather  the  shriek 
of  the  doubling  hare  as  the  pursuing  greyhound  nips  it  across 
the  loins.  Regardless  of  all  her  dainty  finery  of  tulle,  and 
roses,  and  flashing  diamonds,  she  flung  herself  forward,  face 
downwards,  across  the  coping  of  the  balustrade,  her  bare  arms 
outstretched,  her  hands  clasped  above  her  head.  Mr.  Decies, 
blue-eyed,  black-haired,  smooth  of  skin,  looking  noticeably 
long  and  lithe  in  his  close-fitting,  dress  clothes,  made  a  rapid 
movement  as  though  to  lay  hold  on  her  and  bear  her  bodily 
away.  Then,  recognising  the  futility  of  any  such  attempt,  he 
turned  upon  the  intruders,  his  high-spirited  Celtic  face  drawn 
with  emotion,  his  attitude  rather  dangerously  warlike. 

"  What  do  you  want  ?  "  he  demanded  hotly. 

"  My  dear  good  fellow,"  Lord  Shotover  began,  with  the 
most  assuaging  air  of  apology.  "  I  assure  you  the  very  last 
thing  I — we — I  mean  I — want  is  to  be  a  nuisance.  Only 
Miss  St.  Quentin  thought — in  fact,  Decies,  don't  you  see — 
dash  it  all,  you  know,  there  seemed  to  be  some  sort  of  worry 
going  on  out  here  and  so " 

But  Honoria  did  not  wait  for  the  conclusion  of  elaborate 
explanations,  for  that  cry  and  the  unrestraint  of  the  girl's  atti- 
tude not  only  roused,  but  shocked  her.  It  was  not  fitting  that 
any  man,  however  kindly  or  even  devoted,  should  behold  this 
well-bred,  modest  and  gentle,  young  maiden  in  her  present 
extremity.  So  she  swept  past  Mr.  Decies  and  bent  over  Lady 
Constance  Quayle,  raised  her,  strove  to  soothe  her  agitation, 
speaking  in  tones  of  somewhat  indignant  tenderness. 


376  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

But,  though  deriving  a  measure  of  comfort  from  the  steady 
arm  about  her  waist,  from  the  strong,  protective  presence, 
from  the  rather  stern  beauty  of  the  face  looking  down  into 
hers,  Lady  Constance  could  not  master  her  agitation.  The 
train  had  left  the  metals,  so  to  speak,  and  the  result  was  con- 
fusion dire.  A  great  shame  held  her,  a  dislocation  of  mind. 
She  suffered  that  loneliness  of  soul  which  forms  so  integral  a 
part  of  the  misery  of  all  apparently  irretrievable  disaster, 
v/hether  moral  or  physical,  and  places  the  victim  of  it,  in 
imagination  at  all  events,  rather  terribly  beyond  the  pale. 

*'  Oh  !  "  she  sobbed,  "  you  ought  not  to  be  so  kind  to  me. 
I  am  very  wicked.  I  never  supposed  I  could  be  so  wicked. 
What  shall  I  do  ?  I  am  so  frightened  at  myself  and  at  every- 
thing. I  did  not  recognise  you.  I  didn't  see  it  was  only 
Shotover." 

"  Well,  but  now  you  do  see,  my  dear  Con,  it's  only  m©,"^ 
that  gentleman  remarked,  with  a  cheerful  disregard  of  gram- 
mar. "  And  so  you  mustn't  upset  yourself  any  more.  It's 
awfully  bad  for  you,  and  uncomfortable  for  everybody  else, 
don't  you  know.  You  must  try  to  pull  yourself  together  a 
bit  and  we'll  help  you — of  course,  I'll  help  you.  We'll  all 
help  you,  of  course  we  will,  and  pull  you  through  somehow." 

But  the  girl  only  lamented  herself  the  more  piteously. 

"  Oh  no,  Shotover,  you  must  not  be  so  kind  to  me  !  You 
couldn't  if  you  knew  how  wicked  I  have  been." 

"  Couldn't  I  ?  "  Lord  Shotover  remarked,  not  without  a 
touch  of  humorous  pathos.     "  Poor  little  Con  !  " 

''  Only,  only  please  do  not  tell  Louisa.  It  would  be  too 
dreadful  if  she  knew — she,  and  Alicia,  and  the  others.  Don't 
tell  her,  and  I  will  be  good.     I  will  be  quite  good,  indeed  I  will." 

"  Bless  me,  my  dear  child,  I  won't  tell  anybody  anything. 
To  begin  with  I  don't  know  anything  to  tell." 

The  girl's  voice  had  sunk  away  into  a  sob.  She  shuddered, 
letting  her  pretty,  brown  head  fall  back  against  Honoria  St. 
Quentin's  bare  shoulder, — while  the  moonlight  glinted  on  her 
jewels  and  the  night  wind  swayed  the  hanging  clusters  of  the 
pink  geraniums.  Along  with  the  warmth  and  scent  of  flow- 
ers, streaming  outward  through  the  open  windows,  came  a 
confused  sound  of  many  voices,  of  discreet  laughter,  mingled 
with  the  wailing  sweetness  of  violins.  Then  the  pleading, 
broken,  childish  voice  took  up  its  tale  again  : — 


A  SLIP  BETWIXT  CUP  AND  LIP  377 

"I  will  be  good.  I  know  I  have  promised,  and  I  have  let 
him  give  me  a  number  of  beautiful  things.  He  has  been  very 
kind  to  me,  because  he  is  clever,  and  of  course  I  am  stupid. 
But  he  has  never  been  impatient  with  me.  And  I  am  not  un- 
grateful, indeed,  Shotover,  I  am  not.  It  was  only  for  a 
minute  I  was  wicked  enough  to  think  of  doing  it.  But  Mr. 
Decies  told  me  he — asked  me — and — and  we  were  so  happy  at 
Whitney  in  the  winter.  And  it  seemed  too  hard  to  give  it  all 
up,  as  he  said  it  was  true.  But  I  will  be  good,  indeed  I  will. 
Really  it  was  only  for  a  minute  I  thought  of  it.  I  know  I 
have  promised.  Indeed,  I  will  make  no  fuss.  I  will  be  good^ 
I  will  marry  Richard  Calmady." 

"  But  this  is  simply  intolerable ! "  Honoria  said  in  a  low 
voice.  ,,,„^ 

She  held  herself  tall  and  straight,  looking  gallant  yet  pure^ 
austere  even,  as  some  pictured  Jeanne  d'Arc,  a  great  single- 
ness of  purpose,  a  high  courage  of  protest,  an  effect  at  once 
of  fearless  challenge  and  of  command  in  her  bearing. — "  Is  it 
not  a  scandal,"  she  went  on,  "  that  in  a  civilised  country,  at 
this  time  of  day,  woman  should  be  allowed,  actually  forced,  to 
suffer  so  much  ?  You  must  not  permit  this  martyrdom  to  be 
completed — you  can't !  *' 

As  she  spoke  Decies  watched  her  keenly.  Who  this  stately, 
young  lady — so  remarkably  unlike  the  majority  of  Lord  Shot- 
over's  intimate,  feminine  acquaintance — might  be,  he  did  nof 
know.     But  he  discerned  in  her  an  ally  and  a  powerful  one. 

"  Yes,"  he  said  impulsively,  '^  you  are  right.  It  is  a  martyr-* 
dom  and  a  scandalous  one.  It's  worse  than  murder,  it's  sac 
rilege.  It's  not  like  any  ordinary  marriage.  I  don't  want  to 
be  brutal,  but  it  isn't.  There's  something  repulsive  in  it, 
something  unnatural." 

The  young  man  looked  at  Honoria,  and  read  in  her  expression 
a  certain  agreement  and  encouragement. 

"You  know  it,  Shotover — you  know  it  just  as  well  as  I 
do.  And  that  justified  me  in  attempting  what  I  suppose  I 
would  not  otherwise  have  felt  it  honourable  to  attempt. — Look 
here,  Shotover,  I  will  tell  you  what  has  just  happened.  I 
would  havejhad  to  tell  you  to-morrow,  in  any  case,  if  we  had 
carried  the  plan  out.  But  I  suppose  I  have  no  alternative  but 
to  tell  you  now,  since  you've  come." 

He  ranged  himself  in  line  with  Miss  St.  Quentin,  his  back 


378  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

against  one  of  the  big  stone  vases.  He  struggled  honestly  to 
keep  both  temper  and  emotion  under  control,  but  a  rather 
volcanic  energy  was  perceptible  in  him. 

"  I  love  Lady  Constance/'  he  said.  ^^  I  have  told  her  so, 
and — and  she  cares  for  me.  I  am  not  a  Crcesus  like  Calmady. 
But  I  am  not  a  pauper.  I  have  enough  to  keep  a  w^ife  in  a 
manner  suitable  to  her  position,  and  my  own.  When  my 
Uncle  Ulick  Decies  dies — which  I  hope  he'll  not  hurry  to  do, 
since  I  am  very  fond  of  him — there'll  be  the  Somersetshire 
property  in  addition  to  my  own  dear,  old  place  in  County 
Cork.     And  your  sister  simply  hates  this  marriage " 

"  Lord  bless  me,  my  dear  fellow,  so  do  I !  "  Lord  Shotover 
put  in  with  evident  sincerity. 

"  And  so,  when  at  last  I  had  spoken  freely,  I  asked  her 
to 


But  the  young  girl  cowered  down,  hiding  her  face  in 
Honoria  St.  Quentin's  bosom. 

"  Oh  !  don't  say  it  again — don't  say  it,"  she  implored.  "  It 
was  wicked  of  me  to  listen  to  you  even  for  a  minute.  I  ought 
to  have  stopped  you  at  once  and  sent  you  away.  It  was  very 
wrong  of  me  to  listen,  and  talk  to  you,  and  tell  you  all  that 
I  did.  But  everything  is  so  strange,  and  I  have  been  so  mis- 
erable. I  never  supposed  Anybody  could  ever  be  so  misera- 
ble. And  I  knew  it  was  ungrateful  of  me,  and  so  I  dared  not 
tell  anybody.  I  would  have  told  papa,  but  Louisa  never  let 
me  be  alone  with  him.  She  said  papa  indulged  me,  and  made 
me  selfish  and  fanciful,  and  so  I  have  never  seen  him  for  more 
than  a  little  while.  And  I  have  been  so  frightened." — She 
raised  her  head,  gazing  wide-eyed  first  at  Miss  St.  Quentin 
and  then  at  her  brother.  "I  have  thought  such  dreadful 
things.  I  must  be  very  bad.  I  wanted  to  run  away.  I 
wanted  to  die " 

"There,  you  hear,  you  hear,"  Decies  cried  hoarsely, 
spreading  abroad  his  hands,  in  sudden  violence  of  appeal  to 
Honoria.  "  For  God's  sake  help  us !  I  am  not  aware 
whether  you  are  a  relation,  or  a  friend,  or  what.  But  I  am 
convinced  you  can  help,  if  only  you  choose  to  do  so.  And 
I  tell  you  she  is  just  killing  herself  over  this  accursed  marriage. 
Some  one's  got  at  her  and  talked  her  into  some  wild  notion 
of  doing  her  duty,  and  marrying  money  for  the  sake  of  her 
family." 


A  SLIP  BETWIXT  CUP  AND  LIP  379-. 

"  Oh  !  I  say,  damn  it  all,"  Lord  Shotover  exclaimed,  smit- 
ten with  genuine  remorse. 

"  And  so  she  believes  she's  committing  the  seven  deadly  sins, . 
and  I  don't  knou^  u^hat  besides,  because  she  rebels  against  this 
marriage  and  is  unhappy.     Tell   her  it's  absurd,  it's   horrible, 
that  she  should  do  what  she  loathes  and  detests.     Tell  her  this 
talk   about  duty  is  a  blind,  and  a  fiction.     Tell  her  she  isn't 
wicked.     Why,  God  in  heaven,  if  we  were  none  of  us  more 
wicked  than  she  is,  this  poor  old  world  would  be  so  clean  a 
place  that  the  holy  angels  might  walk   barefoot  along  the  Pic- 
cadilly pavement  there,  outside,  without  risking  to  soil  so  much 
as  the  hem  of  their  garments  !     Make  her  understand  that  the 
only  sm  for  her  is  to  do  violence  to  her  nature  by  marrying  a. 
man    she's    afraid    of,  and  for  whom  she    does  not  care.     I 
don't  want  to  play  a  low  game  on  Sir  Richard  Calmady  and. 
steal  that  which  belongs  to  him.     But  she  doesn't  belong  to 
him — she  is  mine,  just  my  own.     I  knew  that  from  the  first 
day  I  came  to  Whitney,  and  looked  her  in  the  face,  Shotover.. 
And  she  knows  it  too,  only  she's  been  terrorised  with  all  this- 
devil's  talk  of  duty." 

So  far  the  words  had  poured  forth  volubly,  as  in  a  torrent.. 
Now  the  speaker's  voice  dropped,  and  they  came  slowly,  de- 
fiantly, yet  without  hesitation. 

'^  And   so  I  asked  her  to  go  away  with  me,  now,  to-night^, 
and   marry  me  to-morrow.     I   can  make  her  happy — oh,  no 
fear  about  that !     And   she  would   have   consented  and  gone. 
We'd  have  been  away  by  now — if  you   and  this  lady  had  not. 
come  just  when  you  did,  Shotover." 

The  gentleman  addressed  whistled  very  softly. 

"  Would  you,  though  ?  "  he  said,  adding  meditatively  : — 
"  By  George  now,  who'd  have  thought  of  Connie  going  the 
pace  like  that !  "  ' 

"  Oh,  Shotover,  never  tell,  promise  me  you  will  never  tell 
them  !  "  the  poor  child  cried  again.     "I  know  it  was  wicked,, 
but " 

"  No,  no,  you  are  mistaken  there,"  Honoria  put  in,  holding ; 
her  still  closer.    "You  were  tempted  to  take  a  rather  desperate 
way  out  of  your  difficulties.     It  would  have  been  unwise,  but 
there  was  nothing  wicked  in  it.     The  wrong  thing  is — as  Mr.^ 
Decies  tells  you — to  marry  without  love,  and  so  make  all  your; 


380  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

life  a  lie,  by  pretending  to  give  Richard  Calmady  that  which 
you  do  not,  and  cannot,  give  him." 

Then  the  young  soldier  broke  in  resolutely  again. 

"  I  tell  you  I  asked  her  to  go  away,  and  I  ask  her  again 
now '* 

"The  deuce  you  do!"  Lord  Shotover  exclaimed,  his 
sense  of  amusement  getting  the  better  alike  of  astonishment 
and  of  personal  regrets. 

"  Only  now  I  ask  you  to  sanction  her  going,  Shotover. 
And  I  ask  you  " — he  turned  to  Miss  St.  Quentin — "to  come 
with  her.  I  am  not  even  sure  of  your  name,  but  I  know  by 
all  that  you've  said  and  done  in  the  last  half-hour,  I  can  be 
very  sure  of  you.  And,  I  perceive,  that  if  you  come  nobody 
will  dare  to  say  anything  unpleasant — there'll  be  nothing,  in- 
deed, to  be  said." 

Honoria  smiled.  The  magnificent  egoism  of  mankind  in 
Jove  struck  her  as  distinctly  diverting.  Yet  she  had  a  very 
kindly  feeling  towards  this  black-haired,  bright-eyed,  ener- 
getic, young  lover.  He  was  in  deadly  earnest — to  the  remov- 
ing even  of  mountains.  And  he  had  need  to  be  so,  for  that 
mountains  immediately  blocked  the  road  to  his  desires  was 
evident  even  to  her  enthusiastic  mind.  She  looked  across 
compellingly  at  Lord  Shotover.  Let  him  speak  first.  She 
^needed  time,  at  this  juncture,  in  which  to  arrange  her  ideas 
and  to  think. 

"  My  dear  good  fellow,"  that  gentleman  began  obediently, 
patting  Decies  on  the  shoulder,  "  I'm  all  on  your  side.  I 
give  you  my  word  I  am,  and  I've  reason  to  believe  my  father 
will  be  so  too.  But  you  see,  an  elopement — specially  in  our 
sort  of  highly  respectable,  humdrum  family — is  rather  a 
strong  order.  Upon  my  honour,  it  is,  you  know,  Decies. 
And,  even  though  kindly  countenanced  by  Miss  St.  Quentin, 
and  sanctioned  by  me,  it  would  make  a  precious  undesirable 
lot  of  talk.  It  really  is  a  rather  irregular  fashion  of  conduct- 
ing the  business  you  see.  And  then — advice  I  always  give 
others  and  only  wish  I  could  always  remember  to  take  myself 
— it's  very  much  best  to  be  off  with  the  old  love  before  you're 
^bn  with  the  new." 

"Yes,  yes,"  Miss  St.  Quentin  put  in  with  quick  decision. 
'^^  Lord  Shotover  has  laid  his  finger  on  the  heart  of  the  matter. 
fit  is  just    that. — Lady   Constance's  engagement  to   Richard 


A  SLIP  BETWIXT  CUP  AND  LIP  381 

Calmady  must  be  cancelled  before  her  engagement  to  you. 
Captain  Decies,  is  announced.  For  her  to  go  away  with  you 
would  be  to  invite  criticism,  and  put  herself  hopelessly  in  the 
wrong.  She  must  not  put  herself  in  the  wrong.  Let  me 
think'  There  must  be  some  way  by  which  we  can  avoid 
that." 

An  exultation,  hitherto  unexperienced  by  her,  inspired  Ho- 
noria  St.  Quentin.  Her  attitude  was  slightly  unconventional. 
She  sat  on  the  stone  balustrade,  with  long-limbed,  lazy  grace,, 
holding  the  girl's  hand,  forgetful  of  herself,  forgetful,  in  a 
degree,  of  appearances,  concerned  only  with  the  problem  of 
rescue  presented  to  her.  The  young  man's  honest,  whole- 
hearted devotion,  the  young  girl's  struggle  after  duty  and  her 
piteous  desolation,  nay,  the  close  contact  of  that  soft,  maidenly 
body  that  she  had  so  lately  held  against  her  in  closer,  more 
intimate,  contact  than  she  had  ever  held  anything  human  be- 
fore, aroused  a  new  class  of  sentiment,  a  new  order  of  emo- 
tion, within  her.  She  realised,  for  the  first  time,  the  magnet- 
ism, the  penetrating  and  poetic  splendour  of  human  love. 
To  witness  the  spectacle  of  it,  to  be  thus  in  touch  with  it> 
excited  her  almost  as  sailing  a  boat  in  a  heavy  sea,  or  riding 
to  hounds  in  a  stifF  country,  excited  her.  And  it  followed 
that  now,  while  she  perched  aloft  boy-like  on  the  balustrade^ 
her  delicate  beauty  took  on  a  strange  effulgence,  a  something, 
spiritual,  mysterious,  elusive,  and  yet  dazzling  as  the  moon- 
light which  bathed  her  charming  figure.  Seeing  which,  it 
must  be  owned  that  Lord  Shotover's  attitude  towards  her 
ceased  to  be  strictly  fraternal,  while  the  attractions  of  ladies 
more  fair  and  kind  than  wise  paled  very  sensibly. 

"I  wish  I  hadn't  been  such  a  fool  in  my  day,  and  run 
amuck  with  my  chances,"  he  thought. 

But  Miss  St.  Quentin  was  altogether  innocent  of  his  ob- 
servation or  any  such  thinkings.  She  looked  up  suddenly,  her 
face  irradiated  by  an  exquisite  smile. 

"  Yes,  I  have  it,"  she  cried.     "  I  see  the  way  clear." 

"  But  I  can't  tell  them,"  broke  in  Lady  Constance. 

Honoria's  hand  closed  down  on  hers  reassuringly. 

"No,"  she  said,  "you  shall  not  tell  them.  And  Lord 
Shotover  shall  not  tell  them.  Sir  Richard  Calmady  shall  tell 
Lord  Fallowfeild  that  he  wishes  to  be  released  from  his  en- 
gagement, as  he   believes   both  you   and   he  will   be  happier 


:382  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

apart.  Only  you  must  be  brave,  both  for  your  own  sake, 
and  for  Mr.  Decies',  and  for  Richard  Calmady's  sake,  also. 
— Lady  Constance,"  she  went  on,  with  a  certain  gentle  au- 
thority, "  do  you  want  to  go  back  to  Whitney  to-morrow,  or 
next  day,  all  this  nightmare  of  an  unhappy  marriage  done 
away  with  and  gone  ?  Well,  then,  you  must  come  and  see 
Sir  Richard  Calmady  to-night,  and,  like  an  honourable  woman, 
tell  him  the  whole  truth.  It  must  be  done  at  once,  or  your 
courage  may  fail.  We  will  come  with  you — Lord  Shotover 
and  I " 

"  Good  Lord,  will  we  though  !  "  the  young  man  ejaculated, 
while  the  girl's  great,  heifer's  eyes  grew  strained  with  wonder 
at  this  astounding  announcement, 

"  I  know  it  will  be  rather  terrible,"  Honoria  continued 
calmly.  "But  it  is  a  matter  of  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  as 
against  a  lifetime,  and  of  honour  as  against  a  lie.  So  it's 
worth  while,  don't  you  think  so,  when  your  whole  future,  and 
Mr.  Decies'  " — she  pressed  the  soft  hand  again  steadily — "  is 
at  stake  ?  You  must  be  brave  now,  and  tell  him  the  truth — 
just  simply  that  you  do  not  love  him  enough — that  you  have 
tried, — you  have,  I  know  you  have  done  that, — but  you  have 
.failed,  that  you  love  some  one  else,  and  that  therefore  you  beg 
him,  in  mercy,  before  it  is  too  late,  to  set  you  free." 

Fascinated  both  by  her  appearance  and  by  the  simplicity  of 
her  trenchant  solution  of  the  difficulty,  Lord  Shotover  stared 
at  the  speaker.  Her  faith  was  infectious.  Yet  it  occurred  to 
him  that  all  women,  good  and  bad,  are  at  least  alike  in  this — 
that  their  methods  become  radically  unscrupulous  when  they 
find  themselves  in  a  tight  place. 

"  It  is  a  fine  plan.  It  ought  to  work,  for — cripple  or  not — 
poor  Calmady's  a  gentleman,"  he  said,  slowly.  "  But  doesn't 
it  seem  just  a  trifle  rough.  Miss  St.  Quentin,  to  ask  him  to  be 
his  own  executioner  ?  " 

Honoria  had  slipped  down  from  the  balustrade,  and  stood 
erect  in  the  moonlight. 

"  I  think  not,"  she  replied.  "  The  woman  pays,  as  a  rule. 
Lady  Constance  has  paid  already  quite  heavily  enough,  don't 
you  think  so  ?  Now  we  will  have  the  exception  that  proves 
the  rule.  The  man  shall  pay  whatever  remains  of  the  debt. 
But  we  must  not  waste  time.  It  is  not  late  yet,  we  shall  still 
.find  him  up,  and  my  brougham  is  here.     I  told  Lady  Aldham 


A  SLIP  BETWIXT  CUP  AND  LIP  38J 

I  should  be  home  fairly  early.     Get  a  cloak  Lady  Constance 
and   meet   us   in  the  hall.     I  suppose   you  can  go  down  bj 
some  back  way  so  as   to  avoid  meeting  people.     Lord  Shot- 
over,  will  you  take  me  to  say  good-night  to  your  sister,  Lady 
Louisa  ? " 

:^;The  young  man  fairly  chuckled. 

:"And  you,  Mr.  Decies,  must  stay  and  dance." — $h->i 
smiled  upon  him  very  sweetly.  "  I  promise  you  it  will  come 
through  all  right,  for,  as  Lord  Shotover  says,  whatever  his 
misfortunes  may  be,  Richard  Calmady  is  a  gentleman. — Ah  ! 
I  hope  you  are  going  to  be  very  happy.     Good-bye." 

'   Decies'  black  head  went  down  over  her  hand,  and  he  kissed 
it  impulsively. 

^^  Good-bye,"  he  said,  the  words  catching  a  little  in  his^ 
throat.  "When  the  time  comes,  may  you  find  the  man  to 
love  you  as  you  deserve — though  I  doubt  if  there's  such 
a  man  living,  or  dead  either,  for  that  matter  !  God  bless; 
you." 

Some  half-hour  later   Honoria  stood   among  the   holland- 
shrouded     furniture     in    Lady     Calmady's    sitting-room    in 
Lowndes  Square.     The  period  of  exalted  feeling,  of  the  con- 
viction of  successful  attainment,  was  over,  and  her  heart  beat 
somewhat  painfully.     For  she  had  had  time,  by  now,  to  realise 
the  surprising  audacity  of  her  own  proceedings.     Lord  Shot- 
over's  parley   with  Richard   Calmady's  man-servant,  on  the 
door-step,  had  brought  that  home  to  her,  placing  what   had 
seemed  obvious,  as  a  course  of  action  to  her  fervid  imagination,, 
in  quite  a  new  light. — Sir  Richard  Calmady  was  at  home  f 
He    was    still    up? — To    that,    yes.     Would    he    see    Lady 
Constance  Quayle  upon  urgent  business  ? — To  that  again,  ye& 
— after  a  rather  lengthy  delay,  while  the  valet,  inscrutable,  yet 
evidently  highly  critical,  made  inquiries. — The   trees  in  thet 
square  had  whispered  together  uncomfortably,  while  the  two- 
young   ladies  waited  in  the   carriage.     And  Lord  Shotover's 
shadow,  which  had  usually,  very  surely,  nothing  in  the  least 
portentous  about  it,  lay  queerly,  three  ways  at  once,  in  vary- 
ing degrees  of  density,  across  the  gray  pavement  in  the  con- 
flicting gas  and  moonlight. 

And  now,  as  she  stood  among  the  shrouded  furniture,  which, 
appeared  oddly  improbable  in  shape  seen  in  the  flickering  of 
two   hastily  lighted    candles,    Honoria    could    hear   Shotover 


384  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

walking  back  and  forth,  patiently,  on  that  same  gray  pave- 
ment outside.  She  was  overstrained  by  the  emotions  and 
'events  of  the  past  hours.  Small  matters  compelled  her  atten- 
tion. The  creaking  of  a  board,  the  rustle  of  a  curtain,  the 
silence  even  of  this  large,  but  half-inhabited,  house,  were  to 
her  big  with  suggestion,  disquietingly  replete  with  possible 
:meaning,  of  exaggerated  importance  to  her  anxiously  listen- 
ing ears. 

Lord  Shotover  had  stopped  walking.  He  was  talking  to 
the  coachman.  Honoria  entertained  a  conviction  that,  in  the 
overflowing  of  his  good  nature,  he  talked — sooner  or  later — 
to  every  soul  whom  he  met.  And  she  derived  almost  childish 
comfort  from  the  knowledge  of  the  near  neighbourhood  of 
that  eminently  good-natured  presence.  Lord  Shotover's  very 
obvious  faults  faded  from  her  remembrance.  She  estimated 
him  only  by  his  size,  his  physical  strength,  his  large  indul- 
gence of  all  weaknesses — including  his  own.  He  constituted 
a  link  between  her  and  things  ordinary  and  average,  for 
which  she  was  rather  absurdly  thankful  at  this  juncture.  For 
the  minutes  passed  slowly,  very  slowly.  It  must  be  getting 
on  for  half  an  hour  since  little  Lady  Constance,  trembling 
and  visibly  affrighted,  had  passed  out  of  sight,  and  the  door 
of  the  smoking-room  had  closed  behind  her.  The  nameless 
agitation  which  possessed  her  earlier  that  same  evening  re- 
turned upon  Honoria  St.  Quentin.  But  its  character  had 
suffered  change.  The  questioning  of  the  actual,  the  suspicion 
of  universal  illusion,  had  departed,  and  in  its  place  she  suffered 
alarm  of  the  concrete,  of  the  incalculable  force  of  human  pas- 
sion, and  of  a  manifestation  of  tragedy  in  some  active  and 
violent  form.  She  did  not  define  her  own  fears,  but  they  sur- 
rounded her  nevertheless,  so  that  the  slightest  sound  made  her 
start. 

For,  indeed,  how  slowly  the  minutes  did  pass  !  Lord  Shot- 
over  was  walking  again.  The  horse  rattled  its  bit,  and  pawed 
the  ground  impatient  of  delay.  Though  lofty,  the  room  ap- 
peared close  and  hot,  with  drawn  blinds  and  shut  windows. 
Honoria  began  to  move  about  restlessly,  threading  her  way  be- 
tween the  pieces  of  shrouded  furniture.  A  chalk  drawing  of 
Lady  Calmady  stood  on  an  easel  in  the  far  corner.  The  por- 
trait emphasised  the  sweetness  and  abiding  pathos,  rather  than 
ithe  strength,  of  the  original,  and  Honoria,  standing  before  it. 


A  SLIP  BETWIXT  CUP  AND  LIP  385 

put  her  hands  over  her  eyes.  For  the  pictured  face  seemed  to 
plead  with  and  reproach  her.  Then  a  swift  fear  took  her  of 
disloyalty,  of  hastiness,  of  self-confidence  trenching  on  cruelty. 
She  had  announced,  rather  arrogantly,  that  whatever  balance 
debt  remained  to  be  paid,  in  respect  of  Sir  Richard  and  Lady 
Constance  Quayle's  proposed  marriage,  should  be  paid  by  the 
man.  But  would  the  man,  in  point  of  fact,  pay  it  ?  Would 
it  not,  must  it  not,  be  paid,  eventually,  by  this  other  noble  and 
much  enduring  woman — whom  she  had  called  her  friend,  and 
towards  whom  she  played  the  part,  as  she  feared,  of  betrayer  ? 
In  her  hot  espousal  of  Lady  Constance's  cause  she  had  only 

saved  one  woman  at  the  expense  of  another Oh  !  how  hot 

the  room  grew  !     Suffocating Lord  Shotover's  steps  died 

away  in  the  distance.  She  could  look  Lady  Calmady  in  the 
face  no  more.  Secure  in  her  own  self-conceit  and  vanity,  she 
had  betrayed  her  friend. 

Suddenly  the  sharp  peal  of  a  bell,  the  opening  of  a  door,  the 
dragging  of  silken  skirts,  and  the  hurrying  of  footsteps. — 
Honoria  gathered  up  her  somewhat  scattered  courage,  and 
swung  out  into  the  hall.  Lady  Constance  Quayle  came  to- 
wards her,  groping,  staggering,  breathless,  her  head  carried 
low,  her  face  convulsed  with  weeping.  But  to  this,  for  the 
moment.  Miss  St.  Quentin  paid  small  heed.  For,  at  the  far 
end  of  the  hall,  a  bright  light  streamed  out  from  the  open 
doorway.  And  in  the  full  glare  of  it  stood  a  young  man — his 
head,  with  its  cap  of  close-cropped  curls  proudly  distinguished 
as  that  of  some  classic  hero,  his  features  the  beautiful  features 
of  Katherine  Calmady,  his  height  but  two-thirds  the  height  a 
man  of  his  make  should  be,  his  face  drawn  and  livid  as  that  of 
a  corpse,  his  arms  hanging  down  straight  at  his  sides,  his  hands 
only  just  not  touching  the  marble  quarries  of  the  floor  on 
either  side  of  him. 

Honoria  uttered  an  exclamation  of  uncontrollable  pity  and 
horror,  caught  Constance  Quayle  by  the  arm,  and  hurried  out 
into  the  moonlit  square  to  the  waiting  carriage.  Lord  Shot- 
over  flung  away  the  end  of  his  cigar  and  strolled  towards 
them. 

"  Got  through,  fixed  It  all  right — eh,  Connie  ?  Bravo — 
that's  grand  ! — Oh,  you  needn't  tell  mc  !  I  can  imagine  it's 
been  a  beastly  piece  of  work,  but  anyway  it's  over  now.  You 
must  go  home  and  go  to  bed,  and  I'll  account  for  you  some- 


386  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

how  to  Louisa.  My  mind's  becoming  quite  inventive  to- 
night, I  promise  you. — There,  get  in — try  to  pull  yourself 
together.  Miss  St.  Quentin,  upon  my  word,  I  don't  know 
how  to  thank  you.  You've  been  magnificent,  and  put  us  un- 
der an  everlasting  obligation.  Con  and  Decies,  and  my  fathef 
and  I. — Nice  night,  isn't  it  ?  You'll  put  us  down  in  Albert 
Gate  ?  All  right.  A  thousand  thanks. — Yes,  I'll  go  on  the 
box  again.  You  haven't  much  room  for  my  legs  among  all 
those  flounces.  Bless  me,  it  occurs  to  me  I'm  getting  con- 
foundedly  hungry.     I  shall  be  awfully  glad  of  some  supper." 


CHAPTER  VIII 

A   MANIFESTATION    OF    THE    SPIRIT 

T>  ROCKHURST  HOUSE  had  slumbered  all  day  long  in 
"^  the  steady  warmth  of  the  July  sun.  The  last  three 
weeks  had  been  rainless,  so  that  the  short  turf  of  the  uplands 
began  to  grow  crisp  and  discoloured,  while  the  resinous  scent 
of  the  fir  forest,  at  once  stimulating  and  soothing,  was  carried 
afar  out  over  the  sloping  corn-fields  and  low-lying  pastures. 
Above  the  stretches  of  purple-budding  heather  and  waste 
sandy  places,  upon  the  moors,  the  heat-haze  danced  and 
quivered  as  do  vapours  arising  from  a  furnace.  Along  the  un- 
derside of  the  great  woods,  and  in  the  turn  of  the  valleys, 
shadows  lingered,  which  were  less  actual  shadows  than  blot- 
tings  of  blue  light.  The  birds,  busy  feeding  wide-mouthed, 
hungry  fledglings,  had  mostly  ceased  from  song.  But  the 
drowsy  hum  of  bees  and  chirrup  of  grasshoppers  was  continu- 
ous, and  told,  very  pleasantly,  of  the  sunshine  and  large  plenty 
reigning  out  of  doors. 

For  Katherme  the  day  in  question  had  passed  in  Martha- 
like occupations. — A  day  of  organising,  of  ordering  and  coun- 
termanding, a  day  of  much  detail,  much  interviewing  of  heads 
of  departments,  a  day  of  meeting  respectful  objections,  en- 
lightening thick  understandings,  gently  reducing  decorously 
opposing  wills.  Commissariat,  transport,  housing  of  guests, 
and  the  servants  of  guests — all  these  entered  into  the  matter 
of  the  coming  wedding.     To  compass  the  doing  of  all  things. 


A  SLIP  BETWIXT  CUP  /  ^D  LIP  387 

not  only  decently  and  in  order,  but  handsomely,  and  with  a 
becoming  dignity,  this  required  time  and  thought.  And  so, 
it  was  not  until  after  dinner  that  Katherine  found  herself  at 
leisure  to  cease  taking  thought  for  the  morrow.  Too  tired  to 
rest  herself  by  reading,  she  wandered  out  on  the  troco-ground 
followed  by  Camp. 

London  had  not  altogether  suited  the  bull-dog  as  the  sum- 
mer wore  on.  Now,  in  his  old  age,  so  considerable  a  change 
of  surroundings  put  him  about  both  in  body  and  mind.  See- 
ing which,  Richard  had  begged  his  mother  to  take  the  dog 
with  her  on  leaving  town.  Camp  benefited,  unquestionably, 
by  his  return  to  country  air.  His  coat  stared  less.  He  car- 
ried his  ears  and  tail  with  more  sprlghtliness  and  conviction. 
Still  he  fretted  after  his  absent  master,  and  followed  Kather- 
ine's  footsteps  very  closely,  his  forehead  more  than  ever 
wrinkled,  and  his  unsightly  mouth  pensive  notwithstanding  its 
perpetual  grin.  He  attended  her  now,  squatting  beside  her 
when  she  paused,  trotting  slowly  beside  her  when  she  moved, 
a  silent,  persistent,  and,  as  it  might  seem,  somewhat  fatefully 
faithful  companion. 

Yet  the  occasion  was  to  all  appearances  far  from  fateful,  the 
night  and  the  scene,  alike,  being  very  fair.  The  moon  had 
not  yet  risen,  but  a  brightness  behind  the  sawlike  edge  of  the 
fir  woods  eastward  heralded  its  coming,  while  sufiicient  light 
yet  remained  in  the  western  and  northern  sky  for  the  mass  of 
the  house,  its  ruddy  walls  and  ranges  of  mullioned  windows, 
its  pierced,  stone  parapet  and  stacks  of  slender,  twisted  chim- 
neys, to  be  seen  with  a  low-toned  distinctness  of  form  and 
colour  infinitely  charming.  Soft  and  rich  as  velvet,  it  rose, 
with  a  certain  noble  serenity,  above  its  terraces  and  fragrant, 
red-walled  gardens,  under  the  enormous  dome  of  the  tranquil, 
far-off,  evening  sky. 

Every  aspect  of  this  place.  In  rain  and  shine,  summer  and 
winter,  from  dawn  to  dark  and  round  to  dawn  again,  was 
familiar  to  Katherine  Calmady.  Coming  here  first,  as  a  bride, 
the  homely  splendour  of  the  house,  and  the  gladness  of  Its  sit- 
uation crowning  the  ridge  of  hill,  appealed  strongly  to  her 
imagination.  Later  it  sheltered  her  long  sorrow,  following  so 
hard  on  the  heels  of  her  brief  joy.  But  in  both  alike,  during 
all  the  vicissitudes  of  her  thought  and  of  her  career,  the  face 
of  Brockhurst  remained  as  that  of  a  friend,  kindly,  beneficent, 


388  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

increasingly  trusted  and  beloved.  And  so  she  had  come  to 
know  every  stick  and  stone  of  it,  from  spacious,  vaulted  cellar 
to  equally  spacious,  low-roofed,  sun-dried  attic — the  outlook 
from  each  window,  the  character  of  each  room,  the  turn  of 
each  stairway,  the  ample  proportions  of  each  lobby  and  stair- 
head, all  the  pleasant  scents,  and  sounds,  and  colours,  that 
haunted  it  both  within  and  without.  It  might  have  been  sup- 
posed that  after  so  many  years  of  affectionate  observation  and 
commerce,  Brockhurst  could  have  no  new  word  in  its  tongue, 
could  hold  no  further  self-revelation,  for  Lady  Calmady.  Yet, 
as  she  passed  now  from  the  arcaded  garden-hall,  supporting 
the  eastern  bay  of  the  Long  Gallery,  on  to  the  level,  green 
square  of  the  troco-ground,  and  stood  gazing  out  over  the 
downward  sloping  park — the  rough,  short  turf  of  it  dotted 
with  ancient  thorn  trees  and  broken  by  beds  of  bracken  and 
dog-roses — to  the  Long  Water,  glistening  like  some  giant 
mirror  some  quarter-mile  distant  in  the  valley,  she  became 
sensible  of  a  novel  element  in  her  present  relation  to  this 
place. 

For  the  first  time,  in  all  her  long  experience,  she  was  at 
Brockhurst  quite  alone.  The  house  was  vacant  even  of  a 
friend.  For  Julius  March  had,  rather  to  Katherine's  surprise, 
selected  just  this  moment  for  the  paying  of  his  yearly  visit  to 
a  certain  college  friend,  a  scholarly  and  godly  person,  now 
rector  of  a  sleepy,  country  parish  away  in  the  heart  of  the 
great,  Midlandshire  grasslands.  Katherine  experienced  a 
momentary  sense  of  injury  at  his  going.  Yet  perhaps  it  was 
as  well.  Between  the  turmoil  of  the  past  London  season,  the 
coming  turmoil  of  the  wedding,  and  the  large  and  serious 
issues  which  that  wedding  involved,  this  time  of  solitude 
might  be  salutary.  To  Katherine,  just  now,  it  seemed  as  a 
bridge  carrying  her  over  from  one  way  of  life  to  another.  A 
but  slightly  known  country  lay  ahead.  Solitude  and  self-rec- 
ollection are  good  for  the  soul  if  it  would  possess  itself  in 
peace.  The  fair  brightness  of  the  Indwelling  Light  had  not 
been  obscured  in  her  during  these  months  devoted  to  the 
world  and  to  society.  But  it  was  inevitable  that  her  con- 
sciousness of  it,  and  consequently  its  clear-shining,  should 
have  suffered  diminution  at  times.  The  eager  pressure  of 
things  to  be  done,  things  to  be  seen,  of  much  conversation, 
the  varied  pageant  of  modern  life  perpetually  presented  to  her 


A  SLIP  BETWIXT  CUP  AND  LIP  389 

eyes  and  her  intelligence,  could  not  but  crowd  out  the  spiritual 
order  somewhat.  Of  late  she  had  had  only  time  to  smile 
upon  her  God  in  passing,  instead  of  spending  long  hours 
within  the  courts  of  His  temple. —This  she  knew.  It  troub- 
led her  a  little.  She  desired  to  return  to  a  condition  of  more 
complete  self-collectedness.  And  so,  the  first  movement  of 
surprise  past,  she  hailed  her  solitude  as  a  means  of  grace,  and 
strove,  in  sweet  sincerity,  to  make  good  use  of  it. 

And  yet — since  the  human  heart,  if  sound  and  wholesome, 
hungers,  even  when  penetrated  by  Godward  devotion,  for 
some  fellow-creature  on  whom  to  expend  its  tenderness — 
Katherlne,  just  now,  regretted  to  be  alone.  The  scene  was 
so  beautiful,  she  would  gladly  have  had  some  one  look  on  it 
beside  herself,  and  share  its  charm.  Then  thoughts  of  the 
future  obtruded  themselves.  How  would  little  Constance 
Quayle  view  Brockhurst  ?  Would  it  claim  her  love  ?  Would 
she  embrace  the  spirit  of  it,  and  make  it  not  only  the  home  of 
her  fair  young  body,  but  the  home  of  her  guileless  heart  ? 
Katherine  yearned  in  spirit  over  this  girl  standing  on  the 
threshold  of  all  the  deeper  experiences  of  a  woman's  life,  of 
those  amazing  revelations  which  marriage  holds  for  an  inno- 
cent and  modest  maiden. — But  oh !  how  lovely  are  such  reve- 
lations when  the  lover  is  also  the  beloved  ! 

Katherine  moved  on  a  few  paces.  The  thought  of  all  that, 
even  now  at  forty-eight,  cut  her  a  little  too  sharply.  It  is  not 
wise  to  call  up  visions  of  joys  that  are  dead.  She  would  think 
of  something  else,  so  she  told  herself,  as  she  paused  in  her 
rustling  gray  dress  upon  the  dry,  gravel  path,  the  surface  of 
which  still  sensibly  held  the  warmth  of  the  sun,  while  Camp 
squatted  soberly  on  his  haunches  beside  her.  But,  at  first, 
only  worrying  thoughts  responded  to  her  call. — It  was  not 
quite  kind,  surely,  of  Julius  to  have  left  home  just  now.  It 
was  a  little  inconsiderate  of  him.  If  she  dwelt  on  the  thought 
o*  that,  clearly  it  would  vex  her — so  it  must  be  banished. 
Reynolds,  the  housekeeper,  had  really  been  very  perverse 
Hbort  the  turning  of  the  two  larger  china-closets  into  extra 
dressing-rooms  for  the  week  of  the  wedding,  and  Clara  showed 
an  inclination  to  back  her  up  in  opposition.  Of  course  the 
maids  would  give  in — they  always  did,  and  that  without  any 
subsequent  attempt  at  small  reprisals.  Still  the  thought  of 
that,  too,  was  annoying  and  must  be  banished.     At  dinner  she 


390  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

had  received  a  singular  letter  from  Honoria  St.  Quentin.  It 
contained  what  appeared  to  Katherine  as  rather  over-urgent 
protestations  of  affection  and  offers  of  service,  if  at  any  future 
time  she — the  writer — could  be  of  use.  The  letter  was 
charming  in  its  slight  extravagance.  But  it  struck  Katherine 
2i9  incomprehensibly  penitent  in  tone — the  letter  of  one  who 
y  as  not  treated  a  friend  quite  loyally  and  is  hot  with  anxiety 
o  atone.  It  was  dated  this  morning  too,  and  must  have  been 
posted  at  some  surprisingly  early  hour  to  have  thus  reached 
Brockhurst  by  the  day  mail.  Lady  Calmady  did  not  quite 
relish  the  missive,  somehow,  notwithstanding  its  affection.  It 
lacked  the  perfection  of  personal  dignity  which  had  pleased 
her  heretofore  in  Honoria  St.  Quentin.  She  felt  vaguely  dis- 
appointed. And  it  followed  that  this  thought,  therefore,  must 
go  along  with  the  rest.  For  she  refused  to  be  disquieted. 
She  would  compel  herself  to  be  at  peace. 

So,  putting  these  small  sources  of  discomfort  from  her,  as 
unworthy  both  of  her  better  understanding  and  of  this  fair 
hour  and  fair  place,  Katherine  yielded  herself  wholly  to  the 
influences  of  her  surroundings.  The  dew  was  rising — prom- 
ise of  another  hot,  clear  day  to-morrow — and  along  with  it 
rose  a  fragrance  of  wild  thyme  from  the  grass  slopes  immedi- 
ately below.  That  fragrance  mingled  with  the  richer  scents 
of  jasmine,  full-cupped,  July  roses,  scarlet,  trumpet-flowered 
honeysuckle,  tall  lilies,  and  great  wealth  of  heavy-headed, 
clove  carnations,  veiling  the  red  walls  or  set  in  the  trim  bor- 
ders of  the  gardens  behind.  A  strangely  belated  nightingale 
still  sang  in  the  big,  Portugal  laurel  beside  the  quaint,  pepper- 
pot  summer-house  in  the  far  corner  of  the  troco-ground, 
where  the  twenty-foot  brick  wall  dips,  in  steps  of  well-set 
masonry,  to  the  gray  three-foot  balustrade.  She  never  remem- 
bered to  have  heard  one  sing  so  late  in  the  summer.  The 
bird  was  answered  moreover  by  another  singer  from  the  cop- 
pice, bordering  the  trout-stream  which  feeds  the  Long  Water, 
away  across  the  valley.  In  each  case  the  song  was,  note  for 
note,  the  same.  But  the  chant  of  the  near  bird  was  hotly 
urgent  in  its  passion  of  "wooing  and  winning,"  while  the 
song  of  the  answerer  came  chastened  and  etherealised  by  dis- 
tance. A  fox  barked  sharply  on  the  left,  out  in  the  Warren. 
And  the  churring  of  the  night-jars,  as  they  flitted  hither  and 
thither  over  the  beds  of  bracken  and  dog-roses,  like  gigantic 


A  SLIP  BETWIXT  CUP  AND  LIP  391 

moths,  on  swift,  silent  wings,  formed   a  continuous   accom- 
paniment, as  of  a  spinning-wheel,  to  the  other  sounds. 

Never,  as  she  watched  and  listened,  had  the  genius  of 
Brockhurst  appeared  more  potent  or  more  enthralling.  For  a 
space  she  rested  in  it,  asking  nothing  beyond  that  which  sight 
and  hearing  could  give.  It  was  very  good  to  breathe  the 
scented  air  and  be  lulled  by  the  inarticulate  music  of  nature. 
It  was  good  to  cease  from  self  and  from  all  individual  striving, 
to  become  a  part  merely  of  the  universal  movement  of  things, 
a  link  merely  in  the  mighty  chain  of  universal  being.  But 
such  an  impersonal  attitude  of  mind  cannot  last  long,  least  of 
all  in  the  case  of  a  woman  !  Katherine's  heart  awoke  and 
cried  again  for  some  human  object  on  which  to  expend  itself, 
some  kindred  intelligence  to  meet  and  reflect  her  own.  Ah, 
were  she  but  better,  more  holy  and  more  wise,  these  cravings 
would  doubtless  not  assail  her  !  The  worship  of  the  Indwell- 
ing Light  would  suffice,  and  she  would  cease  from  desire  of 
the  love  of  any  creature.  But  she  had  not  journeyed  so  far 
upon  the  road  of  perfection  yet,  as  she  sadly  told  herself. 
Far  from  it.  The  nightingale  sang  on,  sang  of  love,  not  far 
hence,  not  far  above,  not  within  the  spirit  only,  but  here, 
warm,  immediate,  and  individual.  And,  do  what  she  would, 
the  song  brought  to  her  mind  such  love,  as  she  herself  had 
known  it  during  the  few  golden  months  of  her  marriage — of 
meetings  at  night,  sweet  and  sacred,  of  partings,  sweet  and 
sacred  too,  at  morning,  of  secret  delights,  of  moments,  at  once 
pure  and  voluptuous,  known  only  to  virtuous  lovers.  It  was 
not  often  that  remembrance  of  all  this  came  back  to  her,  save 
as  a  faint  echo  of  a  once  clear-sounding  voice.  Indeed  she 
had  supposed  it  all  laid  away  forever,  done  with,  even  as  the 
bright  colours  it  had  once  so  pleased  her  to  wear  were  laid 
away  in  high  mahogany  presses  that  lined  one  side  of  the  lofty 
state-bedroom  up-stairs.  But  now  remembrance  laid  violent 
hands  on  her,  shaking  both  mind  and  body  from  their  calm. 
The  passion  of  the  bird's  song,  the  caressing  suavity  of  the 
summer  night,  the  knowledge,  too,  that  so  soon  another  bride, 
and  bridegroom  would  dwell  here  at  Brockhurst,  worked  upon^ 
her  strangely.  She  struggled  with  herself,  surprised  and  half 
angered  by  the  force  of  her  own  emotion,  and  pleaded  at 
once  against,  and  for,  the  satisfaction  of  the  immense  nostalgia . 
which  possessed  her. 


392  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

"  Ah  !  it  is  bitter,  very  bitter,  to  have  had  at  once  so  much 
and  so  little.  Bow  my  proud  neck,  O  Lord,  to  Thy  yoke. 
If  my  beloved  had  but  been  spared  to  me  I  had  never  walked 
in  darkness,  far  from  the  way  of  faith,  and  my  child  had  never 
suffered  bodily  disfigurement.  Perfect  me,  O  God,  even  at 
the  cost  of  further  suffering.  It  is  sad  to  be  shut  away  from 
the  joys  of  my  womanhood,  while  my  life  is  still  strong  in  me. 
Break  me,  O  Lord,  even  as  the  ploughshare  breaks  the  re- 
luctant clod.  Hold  not  Thy  hand  till  the  work  be  fully  ac- 
complished, and  the  earth  be  ready  for  the  sowing  which  makes 
for  harvest.  Give  me  back  the  beloved  of  my  youth,  the  be- 
loved of  my  life,  if  only  for  an  hour.  Teach  me  to  submit. 
Show  me,  beyond  all  dread  of  contradiction  that  vows,  truly 
made,  hold  good  even  in  that  mysterious  world  beyond  the 
grave.  Show  me  that  though  the  body — dear  home  and  vehi- 
cle of  love — may  die,  yet  love  in  its  essence  remains  everlast- 
ingly conscious,  faithful  and  complete.  Bend  my  will  to 
harmony  with  Thine,  O  Lord,  and  cleanse  me  of  self-seeking. 
Ah!  but  still  let  me  see  his  face  once  again,  once  again,  oh, 
my  God — and  I  will  rebel  no  more.  Let  me  look  on  him, 
once  again,  if  only  for  a  moment,  and  I  shall  be  content. 
Hear  me,  I.  am  greatly  troubled,  I  am  athirst — I  faint " 

Katherine's  prayer,  which  had  risen  into  audible  speech, 
sank  away  into  silence.  The  near  nightingale  had  fallen  silent 
also.  But  from  across  the  valley,  chastened  and  etherealised 
by  distance,  still  came  the  song  of  the  answering  bird.  To 
Katherine  those  fine  and  delicate  notes  were  full  of  promise. 
They  bore  testimony  to  the  soul  which  dwells  forever  behind 
the  outward  aspect  and  sense.  Whether  she  fainted  in  good 
jtruth,  or  whether  she  passed,  for  a  while,  into  that  sublimated 
state  of  consciousness  wherein  the  veils  of  habit  cease  to  blind 
and  something  of  the  eternal  essence  and  values  of  things  is 
revealed,  perception  overstepping,  for  once,  the  limits  of  ordi- 
nary, earth-bound  apprehension  and  transcending  ordinary  cir- 
cumscription of  time  and  place,  she  could  not  tell.  Nor  did 
she  greatly  care.  For  a  great  peace  descended  upon  her,  ac- 
companied by  a  gentle,  yet  penetrating  expectancy.  She  stood 
very  still,  her  feet  set  on  the  warm  gravel,  the  night  air 
wrapping  her  about  as  with  a  fragrant  garment,  the  ghostly 
sweetness  of  that  far-away  bird-song  in  her  ears,  while  mo- 
ipentarily  the  conviction  of  the  near  presence  of  the  man  who 


A  SLIP  BETWIXT  CUP  AND  LIP  393 

had  so  loved  her,  and  whom  she  had  so  loved,  deepened  within 
her.  And  therefore  it  was  without  alarm,  without  any  shock 
of  amazement,  that  gradually  she  found  her  awareness  of  that 
presence  change  from  something  felt,  to  something  actually  seen. 

He  came  towards  her — that  first  Richard  Calmady,  her  hus- 
band and  lover — across  the  smooth,  green  levels  of  the  troco- 
ground  which  lay  dusky  in  the  mingling  half-lights  of  the 
nearly  departed  sunset  and  the  rising  moon,  as  he  had  come  to 
her  a  hundred  times  in  life,  back  from  the  farms  or  the  moor- 
lands, from  sport  or  from  business,  or  from  those  early  morn- 
ing rides,  the  clean  freshness  of  the  morning  upon  him,  after 
seeing  his  race-horses  galloped.  He  came  bareheaded,  in  easy 
workmanlike  garments,  short  coat,  breeches,  long  boots  and 
spurs.  He  came  with  the  repose  of  movement  which  is  born 
of  a  well-knit  frame,  and  a  temperate  life,  and  the  grace  of 
gentle  blood.  He  came  with  the  half  smile  on  his  lips,  and 
the  gladness  in  his  eyes  when  they  first  met  hers,  which  had 
always  been  there  however  brief  the  parting.  And  Katherine 
perceived  it  was  just  thus  our  beloved  dead  must  needs  return 
to  us — should  they  return  at  all — laying  aside  the  splendours 
of  the  spirit  in  tenderness  for  mortal  weakness.  Even  as  the 
Christ  laid  aside  the  visible  glory  of  the  Godhead,  and  came  a 
babe  among  men,  so  must  they  come  in  humble,  every-day 
fashion,  graciously  taking  on  the  manner  and  habit  common  to 
them  during  earthly  life.  Therefore  she  suffered  no  shrink- 
ing, but  turned  instinctively,  as  she  had  turned  a  hundred 
times,  laughing  very  softly  in  the  fulness  of  content,  raising 
her  hands,  throwing  back  her  head,  knowing  that  he  would 
come  behind  her  and  take  her  hands  in  his,  and  kiss  her,  so, 
tbending  down  over  her  shoulder.  And,  when  he  came,  she 
did  not  need  to  speak,  but  only  to  gaze  into  the  well-beloved 
face,  fanailiar,  yet  touched — as  it  seemed  to  her — with  a  mys- 
terious and  awful  beauty,  beholding  which  she  divined  the 
answer  to  many  questions. 

For  she  perceived,  as  one  waking  from  an  uneasy  dream 
perceives  the  comfortable  truth  of  day,  that  her  love  was  not 
^iven  back  to  her,  for  the  dear  reason  that  her  love  had  never 
been  taken  away.  The  fiction  of  Time  ceased  to  rule  in  her, 
so  that  the  joy  of  bride  and  new-wed  wife,  the  strange,  sweet 
perplexities  of  dawning  motherhood  were  with  her  now,  not  as 
memories  merely,  but  as  actual,  ever  present,  deathless  fact — • 


394  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

the  culminating,  and  therefore  permanent,  revelation  of  her 
individual  experience.  She  perceived  this  continued  and  must 
continue,  since  it  v^as  the  fine  flower  of  her  nature,  the  unit 
of  her  personal  equation,  the  realisation  of  the  eternal  purpose 
concerning  her  of  Almighty  God.  This  fiction  of  old  age  was 
discredited,  so  was  the  bitterness  of  deposition,  the  mournful 
fiction  of  being  passed  by  and  relegated  to  the  second  place. 
Her  place  was  her  own.  Her  standing  ground  in  the  uni- 
versal order,  a  freehold,  absolute  and  inalienable.  She  could 
not  abdicate  her  throne,  neither  could  any  wrest  it  away  from 
her.  She  perceived  that  not  self-efFacement,  but  self-develop- 
ment, not  dissolution,  but  evolution,  was  the  service  required 
of  her.  And,  as  divinely  designed  contribution  to  that  end 
was  every  joy,  every  sorrow,  laid  upon  her,  since  by  these  was 
she  differentiated  from  all  others,  by  these  was  she  built  up 
into  a  separate  existence,  sane,  harmonious,  well-proportioned, 
a  fair  lamp  lighted  with  a  burning  coal  from  ofi^  the  altar  of 
that  God  of  whom  it  is  written,  not  only  that  He  is  a  consum- 
ing fire,  but  that  He  is  Love. 

All  this,  and  more,  did  Katherine  apprehend,  beholding  the 
familiar,  yet  mysterious  countenance  of  her  well-beloved.  And 
the  tendency  of  that  apprehension  made  for  tranquillity  of 
spirit,  for  a  sure  and  certain  hope.  The  faculty  which  reasons, 
demands  explanation  and  proof,  might  not  be  satisfied,  but  that 
higher  faculty  which  divines,  accepts,  believes,  assuredly  was 
so.  Nor  could  it  be  otherwise,  since  it  is  the  spirit,  the  idea, 
not  the  letter,  which  giveth  life. 

How  long  she  stood  thus,  in  tender  and  illuminating,  though 
wordless,  communion  with  the  dead,  Katherine  did  not  know. 
The  deepest  spiritual  experiences,  like  the  most  exquisite 
physical  ones,  are  to  be  measured  by  intensity  rather  than  dura- 
tion. For  a  space  the  vision  sensibly  held  her,  the  so  ardently 
desired  presence  there  incontestibly  beside  her,  a  personality 
vivid  and  distinct,  yet  in  a  way  remote,  serene  as  the  immense 
dome  of  the  cloudless  sky,  chastened  and  etherealised  as  the 
song  of  the  answering  nightingale,  and  in  this  differing  from 
any  bodily  presence,  as  the  song  in  question  differed  from  that 
of  the  bird  in  the  laurel  close  at  hand. 

Gradually,  and  with  such  sense  of  refreshment  as  one  en- 
joys who,  bathing  in  some  clear  stream  at  evening,  washes 
away  all  soil  and  sweat  of  a  weary  journey,  Katherine  awake 


A  SLIP  BETWIXT  CUP  AND  LIP  395 

to  more  ordinary  observation  of  her  material  surroundings. 
She  became  aware  that  the  dog,  Camp,  had  turned  singularly 
restless.  He  slunk  away  as  though  wishing  to  avoid  her  near 
neighbourhood,  crawled  back  to  her,  with  dragging  hind  quar- 
ters, cringing  and  whining  as  though  in  acute  distress.  And, 
by  degrees,  another  sound  obtruded  itself,  speaking  of  haste 
and  efFort,  notably  at  variance  with  the  delicate  and  gracious 
stillness.  It  came  from  the  highroad  crossing  the  open  moor, 
which  loomed  up  a  dark,  straight  ridge  against  the  southern 
horizon.  It  came  in  rising  and  falling  cadence,  but  ever  nearer 
and  nearer,  increasingly  distinct,  increasingly  urgent — the  fast, 
steady  trot  of  a  horse.  The  moon,  meanwhile,  had  swept 
clear  of  the  saw-like  edge  of  the  fir  forest,  and,  while  the  thin, 
white  light  of  it  broadened  upon  the  dewy  grass  and  the  beat 
of  the  horse-hoofs  rang  out  clearer  and  clearer,  Katherine  was 
aware  that  the  dear  vision  faded  and  grew  faint.  As  it  had 
■come,  softly,  without  amazement  or  fear,  so  it  departed,  with- 
out agitation  or  sadness  of  farewell,  leaving  Katherine  pro- 
foundly consoled,  the  glory  of  her  womanhood  restored  to  her 
in  the  indubitable  assurance  that  what  had  been  of  necessity 
continued,  and  forever  was. 

And,  therefore,  she  still  listened  but  idly  to  the  approaching 
sound,  not  reckoning  with  it  as  yet,  though  the  roll  of  wheels 
was  now  added  to  the  rapid  beat  of  the  hoofs  of  the  trotting 
Jiorse.  It  had  turned  down  over  the  hillside  by  the  crossroad 
leading  to  the  upper  lodge.  Suddenly  it  ceased.  The  shout 
of  a  man's  voice,  loud  and  imperative,  a  momentary  pause, 
then  the  clang  of  heavy,  iron  gates  swinging  back  into  place, 
and  once  again  the  roll  of  wheels  and  that  steady,  urgent, 
determined  trot,  coming  nearer  and  nearer  down  the  elm 
avenue,  whose  stately  rows  of  trees  looked  as  though  made  of 
ebony  and  burnished  silver  in  the  slanting  moonlight.  On  it 
came  across  the  bridge  spanning  the  glistering  whiteness  of 
the  Long  Water.  And  on  again  steadily,  and  no  less  rapidly, 
as  though  pressed  by  the  hand  of  a  somewhat  merciless  driver, 
hot  to  arrive,  bearer  of  stirring  tidings,  up  the  steeply  ascend- 
ing hill  to  the  house. 

Lady  Calmady  listened,  beginning  to  question  whom  this 
nocturnal  disturber  of  the  peace  of  Brockhurst  might  be.  But 
only  vaguely  as  yet,  since  that  which  she  had  recently  ex- 
perienced  was  so  great,  so  wide-reaching  in  its  meaning  and 


396  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

promise,  that,  for  the  moment,  it  dwarfed  all  other  possible, 
all  other  imaginable,  events.  The  gracious  tranquillity  which 
enveloped  her  could  not  be  penetrated  by  any  anxiety  or  pre- 
monition of  momentous  happenings  as  yet.  It  was  not  so, 
however,  with  Camp.  For  a  spirit  of  extravagant  and  un- 
reasoning excitement  appeared  to  seize  on  the  dog.  Forgetful 
of  age,  of  stifF  limbs  and  short-coming  breath,  he  gamboled 
round  Lady  Calmady,  describing  crazy  circles  upon  the  grass, 
and  barking  until  the  unseemly  din  echoed  back  harshly  from 
against  the  great  red  and  gray  facade.  He  fawned  upon  her, 
abject,  yet  compelling,  and,  at  last,  as  though  exasperated  by 
her  absence  of  response,  turned  tail  and  bounded  away  through 
the  garden-hall  and  along  the  terrace,  disappearing  through  the 
small,  arched  side-door  into  the  house.  And  there,  within, 
stir  and  movement  became  momentarily  more  apparent. 
Shifting  lights  flashed  out  through  the  many-paned  windows, 
as  though  in  quick  search  of  some  eagerly  desired  presence. 

Nevertheless,  for  a  little  space,  Katherine  lingered,  the 
fragrance  of  the  wild  thyme  and  of  the  fair  gardens  still  about 
her,  the  somnolent  churring  of  the  night-jars  and  faint  notes 
of  the  nightingale's  song  still  saluting  her  ears.  It  was  so 
difficult  to  return  to  and  cope  with  the  demands  of  ordinary 
life.  For  had  she  not  been  caught  up  into  the  third  heaven 
and  heard  words  unspeakable,  unlawful,  in  their  entirety,  for 
living  man  to  utter? 

But  things  terrestrial,  in  this  case  as  in  so  many  other  cases, 
refused  to  make  large  room  for,  or  brook  delay  from,  things 
celestial.  Two  servants  came  out,  hurriedly,  from  that  same 
arched  side-door.  Then  Clara,  that  devoted  handmaiden, 
called  from  the  window  of  the  red  drawing-room. 

"  Her  ladyship's  there,  on  the  troco-ground.  Don't  you 
see,  Mr.  Winter  ?  " 

The  butler  hurried  along  the  terrace.  Katherine  met  him 
on  the  steps  of  the  garden-hall. 

"Is  anything  wrong.  Winter?  "  she  asked  kindly,  for  the 
trusted  servant  betrayed  unusual  signs  of  emotion.  "  Am  I 
wanted  ?  " 

"Sir  Richard  has  returned,  my  lady,"  he  said,  and  his  voice 
trembled.  "Sir  Richard  is  in  the  Gun-Room.  He  gave 
orders  that  your  ladyship  should  be  told  that  he  would  be  glad 
to  speak  to  you  immediately." 


A  SLIP  BETWIXT  CUP  AND  LIP  397 


CHAPTER  IX 

IN  WHICH  DICKIE  SHAKES  HANDS  WITH  THE  DEVIL 

"IV/TY  dear,  this  is  quite  unexpected." 

^  Lady  Calmady's  tone  was  one  of  quiet,  innate  joy- 

ousness.  A  gentle  brightness  pervaded  her  whole  aspect  and 
manner.  She  looked  wonderfully  young,  as  though  the  hands 
of  the  clock  had  been  put  back  by  some  twenty  and  odd  years. 
Every  line  had  disappeared  from  her  face,  and  in  her  eyes  was 
a  clear  shining  very  lovely  to  behold.  Richard  glanced  at  her 
as  she  came  swiftly  towards  him  across  the  room.  Then  he 
looked  down  again,  and  answered  deliberately  : — 

"Yes,  it  is,  as  you  say,  quite  unexpected.  This  time  last 
night  I  as  little  anticipated  being  back  here  as  you  anticipated 
my  coming.  But  one's  plans  change  rapidly  and  radically  at 
times.     Mine  have  done  so." 

He  sat  at  the  large,  library  writing-table,  a  pile  of  letters, 
papers,  circulars  before  him,  judged  unworthy  of  forwarding, 
which  had  accumulated  during  his  absence.  He  tore  off 
wrappers,  tore  open  envelopes,  quickly  yet  methodically,  as 
though  bending  his  mind  with  conscious  determination  to  the 
performance  of  a  self-inflicted  task.  Looking  at  the  contents 
of  each  in  turn,  with  an  odd  mixture  of  indifference  and  close 
attention,  he  flung  the  major  part  into  the  waste-paper  basket 
set  beside  his  revolving-chair,  A  tall,  green-shaded  lamp  shed 
a  circle  of  vivid  light  upon  the  silver  and  maroon  leather  fur- 
nishings of  the  writing-table,  upon  the  young  man's  bent 
head,  and  upon  his  restless  hands  as  they  grasped,  and 
straightened,  and  then  tore,  with  measured  if  impatient  pre- 
cision, the  letters  and  papers  lying  before  him. 

Lady  Calmady  stood  resting  the  tips  of  her  fingers  on  the 
corner  of  the  table,  looking  down  at  him  with  those  clear 
shining  eyes.  His  reception  of  her  had  not  been  demonstra- 
tive, but  of  that  she  was  hardly  sensible.  The  reconciling  as- 
surances of  faith,  the  glories  of  the  third  heaven,  still  dazzled 
her  somewhat.     Her  feet  hardly  touched  earth  yet,  so  that  her 


398  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

mother-love  and  all  its  sensitive  watchfulness  was,  as  yet, 
somewhat  in  abeyance.  She  spoke  again  with  the  same  quiet 
joyousness  of  tone. 

"  You  should  have  telegraphed  to  me,  dearest,  and  then  all 
would  have  been  ready  to  welcome  you.  As  it  is,  I  fear,  you 
must  feel  yourself  a  trifle  neglected.  I  have  been,  or  have 
fancied  myself,  mightily  busy  all  day — foolishly  cumbered 
about  much  serving — and  had  gone  out  to  forget  maids,  and 
food,  and  domesticities  generally,  into  the  dear  garden.'' — She 
paused,  smiling.  "  Ah  !  it  is  a  gracious  night,"  she  said,  "  full 
of  inspiration.  You  must  have  enjoyed  the  drive  home.  The 
household  refuses  to  take  this  marriage  of  yours  philosophic- 
ally, Dickie,  It  demands  great  magnificence,  quite  as  much, 
be  sure,  for  its  own  glorification  as  for  yours.  It  also  multi- 
plies small  difficulties,  after  the  manner  of  well-conducted 
households,  as  I  imagine,  since  the  world  began." 

Richard  tore  the  prospectus  of  a  mining  company,  offering 
wealth  beyond  the  dreams  of  avarice,  right  across  with  a  cer- 
tain violence. 

"  Oh,  well,  the  household  may  forego  its  magnificence  and 
cease  from  the  multiplication  of  small  difficulties  alike,  as  far  as 
any  marriage  of  mine  is  concerned.  You  can  tell  the  household 
so  to-morrow,  mother,  or  I  can.  Perhaps  the  irony  of  the  posi- 
tion would  be  more  nicely  pointed  by  the  announcement  com- 
ing directly  from  myself.     That  would  heighten  the  drama." 

"  But,  Dickie,  my  dearest  ?  "  Katherine  said,  greatly  per- 
plexed. 

"  The  whole  affair  is  at  an  end.  Lady  Constance  Quayle 
is  not  going  to  marry  me,  and  I  am  not  going  to  marry  Lady 
Constance  Quayle.  On  that  point  at  least  she  and  I  are  entirely 
at  one.  All  London  will  know  this  to-morrow.  Perhaps  Brock- 
hurst,  in  the  interest  of  its  endangered  philosophy,  had  better 
know  it  to-night." 

Richard  leaned  forward,  opening,  tearing,  sorting  the  papers 
again.  A  rasping  quality  was  in  his  voice  and  speech,  hitherto 
unknown  to  his  mother,  a  cold,  imperious  quality  in  his  man- 
ner, also,  new  to  her.  And  these  brought  her  down  to  earthy 
setting  her  feet  thereon  uncompromisingly.  And  the  earth  on 
which  they  were  thus  set  was,  it  must  be  owned,  rather  ugly.  A 
woman  made  of  weaker  stuff  would  have  cried  out  against  such 
sudden  and  painful  declension.     But  Katherine,  happily  both 


A  SLIP  BETWIXT  CUP  AND  LIP  399 

for  herself  and  for  those  about  her,  waking  even  from  dreams 
of  noble  and  far-reaching  attainment,  waked  with  not  only  her 
wits,  but  her  heart,  in  steady  action.  Yet  she  in  nowise  went 
back  on  the  revelation  that  had  been  vouchsafed  to  her.  It 
was  in  nowise  disqualified  or  rendered  suspect,  because  the 
gamut  of  human  emotion  proved  to  have  more  extended  range 
and  more  jarring  discords  than  she  had  yet  reckoned  with. 
Her  mind  was  large  enough  to  make  room  for  novel  experience 
in  sorrow,  as  well  as  in  joy,  retaining  the  while  its  poise  and 
sanity.  Therefore  she,  recognising  a  new  phase  in  the 
development  of  her  child,  without  hesitation  or  regret  of  self- 
love  for  the  disturbance  of  her  own  gladness  braced  herself  to 
meet  it.  His  pride  had  been  wounded — somehow,  she  knew 
not  how — to  the  very  quick.  And  the  smart  of  that  wound 
was  too  shrewd,  as  yet,  for  any  precious  balms  of  articulate 
tenderness  to  soothe  it.  She  must  give  it  time  to  heal  a  little, 
meanwhile  setting  herself  scrupulously  to  respect  his  dark 
humour,  meet  his  pride  with  pride,  his  calm  with  at  least  equal 
calmness. 

She  drew  a  chair  up  to  the  end  of  the  table,  and  settled  her- 
self to  listen  quite  composedly. 

"  It  will  be  well,  dearest,"  she  said,  "  that  you  should  ex- 
plain to  me  clearly  what  has  happened.  To  do  so  may  avert 
possible  complications." 

Richard's  hands  paused  among  the  papers.  He  regarded 
Lady  Calmady  reflectively,  not  without  a  grudging  admiration. 
But  an  evil  spirit  possessed  him,  a  necessity  of  mastery — in- 
•evitable  reaction  from  recently  endured  humiliation — which 
provoked  him  to  measure  his  strength  against  hers.  He  needed 
a  sacrifice  to  propitiate  his  anger.  That  sacrifice  must  be  in 
some  sort  a  human  one.  So  he  deliberately  pulled  the  tall 
lamp  nearer,  and  swung  his  chair  round  sideways,  leaning  his 
elbow  on  the  table,  with  the  result  that  the  light  rested  on  his 
face.  It  did  more.  It  rested  upon  his  body,  upon  his  legs  and 
feet,  disclosing  the  extent  of  their  deformity. 

Involuntarily  Katherine  shrank  back.  It  was  as  though  he 
had  struck  her.  Morally,  indeed,  he  had  struck  her,  for  there 
was  a  cynical  callousness  in  this  disclosure,  in  this  departure 
from  his  practice  of  careful  and  self-respecting  concealment. 
Meanwhile  Richard  watched  her,  as,  shrinking,  her  eyelids 
•drooped  and  quivered. 


400  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

"  Mother,"  he  said,  quietly  and  imperatively. — And  when, 
not  without  perceptible  effort,  she  again  raised  her  eyes  to  his, 
he  went  on  : — "  I  quite  agree  with  you  that  it  will  be  well  foi* 
me  to  explain  with  a  view  to  averting  possible  complications- 
It  has  become  necessary  that  we  should  clearly  understand  one 
another — at  least  that  you,  my  dear  mother,  should  understand 
my  position  fully  and  finally.  We  have  been  too  nice,  you 
and  I,  heretofore,  and,  the  truth  being  very  far  from  nice,  have 
expended  much  trouble  and  ingenuity  in  our  efforts  to  ignore 
it.  We  went  up  to  London  in  the  fond  hope  that  the  world 
at  large  would  support  us  in  our  self-deception.  So  it  did,  for 
a  time.  But,  being  in  the  main  composed  of  very  fairly 
honest  and  sensible  persons,  it  has  grown  tired  of  sentimental 
lying,  of  helping  us  to  bury  our  heads  ostrich-like  in  th^  sand. 
It  has  gone  over  to  the  side  of  truth — that  very  far  from  flatter- 
ing or  pretty  truth  to  which  I  have  just  alluded — with  thij*  result, 
among  others,  that  my  engagement  has  come  to  an  abrupt  and 
really  rather  melodramatic  conclusion." 

He  paused. 

"  Go  on,  Richard,"  Lady  Calmady  said,  "  I  am  listt-ning." 

He  drew  himself  up,  sitting  very  erect,  keeping  his  eyes 
steadily  fixed  on  her,  speaking  steadily  and  coldly,  though  his 
lips  twitched  a  little. 

"  Lady  Constance  did  me  the  honour  to  call  on  me  last 
night,  rather  later  than  this,  absenting  herself  in  the  very  thick 
of  Lady  Louisa  Barking's  ball  for  that  purpose." 

Katherine  moved  slightly,  her  dress  rustled. 

"  Yes — considering  her  character  and  her  training  it  was  jl 
rather  surprising  demarche  on  her  part,  and  bore  convincing 
testimony  to  her  agitation  of  mind." 

'^  Did  she  come  alone  ?  " 

Richard  lapsed  into  an  easier  position. 

"Oh,  dear  no  !  "  he  said.  "Allowing  for  the  desperation 
which  dictated  her  proceedings,  they  were  carried  out  in  a 
very  regular  manner,  with  a  praiseworthy  regard  for  appear- 
ances. Lady  Constance  is,  in  my  opinion,  a  very  sweet  per- 
son. She  is  perfectly  modest  and  has  an  unusual  regard — as 
women  go — for  honour  and  duty — as  women  understand 
them." — Again  his  voice  took  on  that  rasping  quality.  "  She 
brought  a  friend,  a  young  lady,  with  her.  Fortunately  there 
was   no  occasion  for  me  to  speak  to  her — she  had  the  good 


A  SLIP  BETWIXT  CUP  AND  LIP  401 

taste  to  efface  herself  during  our  interview.  But  I  saw  her  in 
the  hall  afterwards.  I  shall  always  remember  that  y^y  dis- 
tinctly. So,  I  imagine,  will  she.  Then  Lord  Shotover  waited 
outside  with  the  carriage.  Oh  !  believe  me,  admitting  its  in- 
herent originality,  the  affair  was  conducted  with  an  admirable 
regard  for  appearances." 

Again  the  regular  flow  of  Richard's  speech  was  broken. 
His  throat  had  gone  very  dry. 

"  Lady  Constance  appealed  to  me  in  extremely  moving 
terms,  articulate  and  otherwise,  to  set  her  free." 

"  To  set  her  free — and  upon  what  grounds  ?  " 

"  Upon  the  rather  crude,  but  preeminently  sensible  grounds, 
my  dear  mother,  that  after  full  consideration,  she  found  the 
bid  was  not  high  enough." 

"  Indeed,"  Katherine  said. 

"  Yes,  indeed,  my  dear  mother,"  Richard  repeated.  "  Does 
that  surprise  you  ?  It  quite  ceased  to  surprise  me,  when  she 
pointed  out  the  facts  of  the  case.  For  she  was  touchingly 
sincere.  I  respected  her  for  that.  The  position  was  an  un- 
gracious one  for  her.  She  has  a  charming  nature,  and  really 
wanted  to  spare  me  just  as  much  as  was  possible  along  with 
the  gaining  of  her  cause.  Her  gift  of  speech  is  limited,  you 
know,  but  then  no  degree  of  eloquence  or  diplomacy  could 
have  rendered  that  which  she  had  to  say  agreeable  to  my 
self-esteem.  Oh  !  on  the  whole  she  did  it  very  well,  very  con- 
clusively." 

Richard  raised  his  head,  pausmg  a  moment.  Again  that  dry- 
ness of  the  throat  checked  his  utterance.  And  then,  recalling 
the  scene  of  the  past  night,  a  great  wave  of  unhappiness,  pure 
and  simple,  of  immense  disappointment,  immense  self-disgust 
broke  over  him.  His  anger,  his  outraged  pride,  came  near 
being  swamped  by  it.  He  came  near  losing  his  bitter  self- 
control  and  crying  aloud  for  help.  But  he  mastered  the  in- 
clination, perhaps  unfortunately,  and  continued  speaking. 

"  Yes,  decidedly,  with  the  exception  of  Ludovic,  that  family 
do  not  possess  ready  tongues,  yet  they  contrive  to  make  their 
meaning  pretty  plain  in  the  end.  I  have  just  driven  over  from 
Whitney,  and  am  fresh  from  a  fine  example  of  eventual  plain 
speaking  from  that  excellent  father  of  the  family.  Lord  Fallow- 
feild.  It  was  instructive.  For  the  main  thing,  after  all,  as 
we  must  both  agree,  mother,  is  to  understand  oneself  clearly 


402  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

and  to  make  oneself  clearly  understood.  And  in  this  respect 
you  and  I,  Pm  afraid,  have  failed  a  good  deal.  Blinded  by  our 
own  fine  egoism  we  have  even  failed  altogether  to  understand 
others.  Lady  Constance,  for  instance,  possesses  very  much 
more  character  than  it  suited  us  to  credit  her  with." 

"  You  are  harsh,   dearest,"   Katherine  murmured,  and  her 
lips  trembled. 

"  Not  at  all,"  he  answered.  "  I  have  only  said  good-bye  to 
lying.  Can  you  honestly  deny,  my  dear  mother,  that  the 
whole  affair  was  just  one  of  convenience  ?  I  told  you — it 
strikes  me  now  as  a  rather  brutally  primitive  announcement — 
that  I  wanted  a  wife  because  I  wanted  a  son — a  son  to  prove 
to  me  the  entirety  of  my  own  manhood,  a  son  to  give  me  at 
second  hand  certain  obvious  pleasures  and  satisfactions  which 
I  am  debarred,  as  you  know,  from  obtaining  at  first  hand. 
You  engaged  to  find  me  a  bride.  Poor,  little  Lady  Constance 
Quayle,  unfortunately  for  her,  appeared  to  meet  our  require- 
ments, being  pretty  and  healthy,  and  too  innocent  and  unde- 
veloped  to  suspect  the  rather  mean  advantage  we  proposed  to 
take  of  her. — What  ?  I  know  it  sounds  rather  gross  stated 
thus  plainly.  But,  the  day  of  lies  being  over,  dare  you  deny 
it  ? — Well  then,  we  proceeded  to  traffic  for  this  desirable  bit 
of  young  womanhood,  of  prospective  maternity, — to  buy  her 
from  such  of  her  relations  as  were  perverted  enough  to  coun- 
tenance the  transaction,  just  as  shamelessly  as  though  we  had 
gone  into  the  common  bazar,  after  the  manner  of  the  cynical 
East,  and  bargained  for  her,  poor  child,  in  fat-tailed  sheep  or 
cowries.  Doesn't  it  appear  to  you  almost  incredible,  almost 
infamous  that  we — you  and  I,  mother — should  have  done  this 
thing  ?  The  price  we  ofFered  seemed  sufficient  to  some  of 
her  people — not  to  all,  I  have  learned  that  past  forgetting  to- 
day, thanks  to  Lord  Fallowfeild's  thick-headed,  blundering 
veracity.  But,  thank  heaven,  she  had  more  heart,  more  sensi- 
bility, more  self-respect,  more  decency,  than  we  allowed  for* 
She  plucked  up  spirit  enough  to  refuse  to  be  bought  and  sold 
like  a  pedigree  filly  or  heifer.  I  think  that  was  rather  heroic, 
considering  her  traditions  and  the  pressure  which  had  been 
brought  to  bear  to  keep  her  silent.  I  can  only  honour  and 
reverence  her  for  coming  to  tell  me  frankly,  though  at  the 
eleventh  hour,  that  she  preferred  a  man  of  no  particular  posi- 
tion or  fortune,  but  with  the  ordinary  complement  of  limbs. 


A  SLIP  BETWIXT  CUP  AND  LIP  403 

to  Brockhurst,  and  the  house  in  London,  and  my  forty  to 
forty-five  thousand  a  year,  plus " 

Richard  laughed  savagely,  leaning  forward,  spreading  out 
his  arms. 

"  Well,  my  dear  mother, — since  as  I  say  the  day  of  lies  is 
over, — plus  the  remnant  of  a  human  being  you  may  see  here, 
at  this  moment,  if  you  will  only  have  the  kindness  to  look ! " 

At  first  Katherine  had  listened  in  mute  surprise,  bringing 
her  mind,  not  without  difliculty,  into  relation  to  the  immediate 
and  the  present.  Then  watchful  sympathy  had  been  aroused, 
then  anxiety,  then  tenderness,  denying  itself  expression  since 
the  time  for  it  was  not  yet  ripe.  But  as  the  minutes  length- 
ened and  the  flow  of  Richard's  speech  not  only  continued,  but 
gained  in  volume  and  in  force,  sympathy,  anxiety,  tenderness, 
were  merged  in  an  emotion  of  ever-deepening  anguish,  so  that 
she  sat  as  one  who  contemplates,  spellbound,  a  scene  of  veri- 
table horror.  From  regions  celestial  to  regions  terrestrial  she 
had  been  hurried  with  rather  dislocating  suddenness.  But  her 
sorry  journey  did  not  end  there.  For  hardly  were  her  feet 
planted  on  solid  earth  again,  than  the  demand  came  that  she 
should  descend  still  further — to  regions  sub-terrestrial,  regions 
frankly  infernal.  And  this  descent  to  hell,  though  rapid  to  the 
point  of  astonishment,  was  by  no  means  easy.  Rather  was  it 
violent  and  remorseless — a  driving  as  by  reiterated  blows,  a 
rude  merciless  dragging  onward  and  downward.  Yet  even  so, 
for  all  the  anguish  and  shame — as  of  unseemly  exposure — the 
perversion  of  her  intention  and  action,  the  scorn  so  ruthlessly 
poured  upon  her,  it  was  less  of  herself,  the  compelled,  than  of 
Richard,  the  compelling,  that  she  thought.  For  even  while 
his  anger  thus  drove  and  dragged  her,  he  himself  was  tortured 
in  the  flame  far  below, — so  it  seemed,  and  that  constituted  the 
finest  sting  of  her  agony — beyond  her  power  to  reach  or  help. 
She,  after  all,  but  stood  on  the  edge  of  the  crater,  watching. 
He  fought,  right  down  in  the  molten  waves  of  it — fought 
with  himself,  too,  more  fiercely  even  than  he  fought  with  her. 
So  that  now,  as  years  ago  waiting  outside  the  red  drawing- 
room,  hearing  the  stern,  peremptory  tones  of  the  surgeons, 
the  moan  of  unspeakable  physical  pain,  the  grating  of  a  saw, 
picturing  the  dismemberment  of  the  living  body  she  so  loved, 
Katherine  was  tempted  to  run  a  little  mad  and  beat  her  beauti- 
ful head  against  the  wall.     But  age,  while  taking  no  jot  or 


404  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

tittle  from  the  capacity  of  suffering,  still,  in  sane  and  healthy 
natures,  brings  a  certain  steadiness  to  the  brain  and  coolness  to 
the  blood.  Therefore  Katherine  sat  very  still  and  silent,  her 
sweet  eyes  half  closed,  her  spirit  bowed  in  unspoken  prayer 
Surely  the  all-loving  God,  who,  but  a  brief  hour  ago,  had 
vouchsafed  her  the  fair  vision  of  the  delight  of  her  youth, 
would  ease  his  torment  and  spare  her  son  ? 

And,  all  the  while,  outward  nature  remained  reposeful  and 
gracious  in  aspect  as  ever.  The  churring  of  the  night-jars, 
the  occasional  bark  of  the  fox  in  the  Warren,  the  song  of  the 
answering  nightingales,  wandered  in  at  the  open  casements. 
And,  along  with  these,  came  the  sweetness  of  the  beds  of  wild 
thyme  from  the  grass  slopes,  and  the  rich,  languid  scent  of  the 
blossom  of  the  little,  round-headed,  orange  trees  set,  in  green 
tubs  below  the  carven  guardian  griffins,  on  the  flight  of  steps 
leading  up  to  the  main  entrance.  That  which  had  been 
lovely,  continued  lovely  still.  And,  therefore  perhaps, — she 
could  hope  it  even  in  the  fulness  of  her  anguish, — the  gates 
of  hell  might  stand  open  to  ascending  as  well  as  descending 
feet  and  so  that  awful  road  might  at  last — at  last — be  retraced 
by  this  tormented  child  of  hers,  whom,  though  he  railed 
against  her,  she  still  supremely  loved. 

But  Richard,  whether  actually  or  intentionally  it  would  be 
difficult  to  say,  misinterpreted  and  resented  her  silence  and  ap- 
parent calm.  He  waited  for  a  time,  his  eyes  fastened  upon 
her  half-averted  face.  Then  he  picked  up  one  of  the  remain- 
ing packets  from  the  table,  tore  off  the  wrapper,  glanced  at  the 
contents,  stretched  out  his  left  arm  holding  the  said  contents 
suspended  over  the  waste-paper  basket. 

"  Yes,  it  is  evident,"  he  declared,  "  even  you  do  not  care  to 
look  !  Well,  then,  must  you  not  admit  that  you  and  I  have 
been  guilty  of  an  extravagance  of  fatuous  folly,  and  worse,  in 
seriously  proposing  that  a  well-born,  sensitive  girl  should  not 
only  look  at,  habitually  and  closely,  but  take  for  all  her  chance 
in  life  a  crippled  dwarf  like  me — an  anomaly,  a  human  curi- 
osity, a  creature  so  unsightly  that  it  must  be  carried  about  like 
any  baby-in-arms,  lest  its  repulsive  ungainliness  should  sicken 
the  bystanders  if,  leaving  the  shelter  of  a  railway-rug  and  an 
armchair,  it  tries — unhappy  brute — to  walk  ? — Oh  !  Pm  not 
angry  with  her.  I  don't  blame  her.  Pm  not  surprised.  I 
agree  with  her  down  to  the  ground.     I  sympathise  and  com- 


A  SLIP  BETWIXT  CUP  AND  LiP  405. 

prehend — no  man  more.  I  told  her  so  last  night — only 
amazed  at  the  insane  egoism  that  coula  ever  have  induced  me 
to  view  the  matter  in  any  other  light.  Women  are  generally 
disposed  to  be  hard  on  one  another.  But  if  you,  my  dear 
mother,  should  be  in  any  degree  tempted  to  be  hard  on  Con- 
stance Quayle,  I  beg  you  to  consider  your  ow^n  engagement, 
your  own  marriage,  my  father's " 

Here  Katherine  interrupted  him,  rising  in  sudden  revolt. 

"  No,  no,  Richard,"  she  said,  ''  that  is  more,  my  dear,  than 
I  can  either  permit  or  can  bear.  If  you  have  any  sort  of 
mercy  left  in  you,  do  not  bring  your  father's  name,  and  that 
which  lies  between  him  and  me,  into  this  hideous  conversa- 
tion." 

The  young  man  looked  hard  at  her,  and  then  opening  his 
hand,  let  the  pieces  of  torn  paper  flutter  down  into  the  basket. 
It  was  done  with  a  singularly  measured  action,  symbolic  of 
casting  off  some  last  tie,  severing  some  last  link,  which  bound 
his  life  and  his  allegiance  to  his  companion. 

"  Yes,  exactly,"  he  said.  "  As  I  expected,  the  day  of  lying 
being  over,  you  as  good  as  own  it  an  outrage  to  your  taste,  and 
your  affections,  that  so  frightful  a  thing,  as  I  am,  should  ven- 
ture to  range  itself  alongside  your  memories  of  your  husband. 
Out  of  your  own  mouth  are  you  judged,  my  dear  mother. 
And,  if  I  am  thus  to  you,  upon  whom,  after  all,  I  have  some 
natural  claim,  what  must  I  be  to  others  ?  Think  of  it ! 
What  indeed  ?  " 

Katherine  made  no  attempt  to  answer.  Perception  of  the 
grain  of  truth  which  seriisoned  the  vast,  the  glaring,  injustice 
of  his  accusations  unnerved  her.  His  speech  was  ingeniously 
cruel.  His  humour  such,  that  it  was  vain  to  protest.  And 
the  hopelessness  of  it  all  affected  her  to  the  point  of  physical 
weakness.  She  moved  across  the  room,  intending  to  gain  the 
door  and  go,  for  it  seemed  to  her  the  limit  of  her  powers  of 
endurance  had  been  reached.  But  her  strength  would  not 
carry  her  so  far.  She  stumbled  on  the  upturned  corner  of  the 
shining,  tiger-skin  rug,  recovered  herself  trembling,  and  laid 
hold  of  the  high,  narrow,  marble  shelf  of  the  chimneypiece 
for  support.  She  must  rest  a  little  lest  her  strength  should 
wholly  desert  her,  and  she  should  fall  before  reaching  the 
door. 

Behind   her,  within  the   circle  of   lamplight,  Richard  'e- 


4o6  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

mained,  still  sorting,  tearing,  flinging  away  that  which  re- 
mained of  the  pile  of  papers.  This  deft,  persistent  activity  of 
his,  in  its  mixture  of  purpose  and  abstraction  was  agitating — 
seeming,  to  Katherine's  listening  ears,  as  though  it  might  go 
on  endlessly,  until  not  only  these  waste  papers,  but  all  and 
everything  within  his  reach,  things  spiritual,  things  of  the 
heart,  duties,  obligations,  gracious  and  tender  courtesies,  as 
well  as  things  merely  material,  might  be  thus  relentlessly 
scrutinised,  judged  worthless,  rent  asunder  and  cast  forth. 
What  would  be  spared  she  wondered,  what  left  ?  And  when 
the  work  of  destruction  was  completed,  what  would  follow 
next  ? — Bracing  herself,  she  turned,  purposing  to  close  the  in- 
terview by  some  brief  pleading  of  indisposition  and  to  escape. 
But,  as  she  did  so,  the  sound  of  tearing  ceased.  Richard 
slipped  down  from  his  place  at  the  writing-table,  and  shuffling 
across  the  room,  flung  himself  down  in  the  long,  low  arm- 
chair on  the  opposite  side  of  the  fireplace. 

"  I  don't  want  to  detain  you  for  an  unreasonable  length  of 
time,  mother,"  he  said.  "  We  understand  each  other  in  the 
main,  I  think,  and  that  without  subterfuge  or  self-deception  at 
last.  But  there  are  details  to  be  considered,  and,  as  I  leave 
here  early  to-morrow  morning,  I  think  you'll  feel  with  me 
it's  desirable  we  should  have  our  talk  out.  There  are  a  good 
many  eventualities  for  which  it's  only  reasonable  and  prudent 
to  make  provision  on  the  eve  of  an  indefinitely  long  absence. 
Practically  a  good  many  people  are  dependent  on  me,  one  way 
and  another,  and  I  don't  consider  it  honourable  to  leave  their 
affairs  at  loose  ends,  however  uncertain  my  own  future  may 
be." 

Richard's  voice  had  still  that  rasping  quality,  while  his  bear- 
ing was  instinct  with  a  coldly  dominating,  and  almost  aggres- 
sive, force.  Katherine,  though  little  addicted  to  fear,  felt 
strangely  shaken,  strangely  alienated  by  the  dead  weight  of 
the  personality,  by  perception  of  the  innate  and  tremendous 
vigour,  of  this  being  to  whom  she  had  given  birth.  She  had 
imagined,  specially  during  the  last  few  months  of  happy  and 
intimate  companionship,  that  if  ever  mother  knew  her  child, 
she  knew  Richard— through  and  through.  But  it  appeared 
she  had  been  mistaken.  For  here  was  a  new  Richard,  at  once 
terrible  and  magnificent,  regarding  whom  she  could  predicate 
nothing  with  certainty.     He   defied   her  tenderness,  he   out- 


A  SLIP  BETWIXT  CUP  AND  LIP  407 

|)aced  her  imagination,  he  paralysed  her  will.  Between  his 
thoughts,  desires,  intentions,  and  hers,  a  blind  blank  space  had 
suddenly  intruded  itself,  impenetrable  to  her  thought.  In  per- 
son he  was  here  close  beside  her,  in  mind  he  was  despairingly 
far  away.  And  to  this  last,  not  only  his  words,  but  his  man- 
ner, his  expression,  his  singular,  yet  sombre,  beauty,  bore  con- 
vincing testimony.  He  had  matured  with  an  almost  unnatural 
rapidity,  leaving  her  far  behind.  In  his  presence  she  felt  diffi- 
dent, mentally  insecure,  even  as  a  child. 

She  remained  standing,  holding  tightly  to  the  narrow  ledge 
of  the  mantelpiece.  She  felt  dazed  and  giddy  as  in  face  of 
some  upheaval,  some  cataclysm,  of  nature.  In  relation  to  her 
son  she  was  conscious,  in  truth,  that  her  whole  world  had 
suffered  shipwreck. 

"  Where  are  you  going,  Dickie  ? "  she  asked  at  last  very 
simply. 

"  Anywhere  and  everywhere  where  amusement,  or  even  the 
semblance  of  it,  is  to  be  had,"  he  answered. — "  Do  you  wish 
to  know  how  long  I  shall  be  away  ?  Just  precisely  as  long 
as  amusement  in  any  form  offers  itself,  and  as  my  power  of 
being  amused  remains  to  me.  This  strikes  you  as  slightly 
ignoble  ?  I  am  afraid  that's  a  point,  my  dear  mother,  upon 
which  I  'am  supremely  indifferent.  You  and  I  have  posed 
rather  extensively  on  the  exalted  side  of  things  so  far,  have 
strained  at  gnats  and  finished  up  by  swallowing  a  remarkably 
full-grown  camel.  This  whole  business  of  my  proposed  mar- 
riage has  been  anything  but  graceful,  when  looked  at  in  the 
common-sense  way  in  which  most  people,  of  necessity,  look 
at  it.  Lord  Fallowfeild  appealed  to  me  against  myself — which 
appeared  to  me  slightly  humorous — as  one  man  of  the  world 
to  another.  That  was  an  eye-opener.  It  was  likewise  a 
profitable  lesson.  I  promptly  laid  it  to  heart.  And  it  is  ex- 
clusively from  the  point  of  view  of  the  man  of  the  world  that 
I  propose  to  regard  myself,  and  my  circumstances,  and  my 
personal  peculiarities,  in  future.  So,  to  begin  with,  if  you 
please,  from  this  time  forth,  we  put  aside  all  question  of  mar- 
riage in  my  case.  We  don't  make  any  more  attempts  to  buy 
innocent  and  well-bred,  young  girls,  inviting  them  to  condone 
my  obvious  disabilities  in  consideration  of  my  little  title  and 
my  money." 

Richard  ceased  to  look  at  Lady  Calmady.     He  looked  away 


4o8  SIR  RICHARD  CALM ADY 

through  the  open  window  into  the  serene  sky  of  the  summer' 
night,  a  certain  hunger  in  his  expression  not  altogether 
pleasant  to  witness. 

"  Fortunately,"  he  continued,  with  something  between  a 
laugh  and  a  sneer,  "  there  is  a  mighty  army  of  women — always 
has  been — who  don't  come  under  the  head  of  innocent,  young 
girls,  though  some  of  them  have  plenty  of  breeding  of  a  kind. 
They  attach  no  superstitious  importance  to  the  marriage  cere- 
mony. My  position  and  money  may  obtain  me  consolations 
in  their  direction." 

Lady  Calmady  ceased  to  require  the  cold  support  of  the 
marble  mantelshelf. 

"  It  is  unnecessary  for  us  to  discuss  that  subject,  at  least^ 
Richard,"  she  said. 

The  young  man  turned  his  head  again,  looking  full  at  her. 
And  again  the  distance  that  divided  her  from  him  became  to 
her  cruelly  apparent,  while  his  strength  begot  in  her  a  shrink- 
ing of  fear. 

^'  I  am  sorry,"  he  replied,  "  but  I  can^t  agree  with  you 
there.  It  is  inevitable  that  we  should  differ  in  the  future,  and 
that  you  should  frequently  disapprove.  I  can't  expect  you  to 
emancipate  yourself  from  prejudice,  as  I  am  already  emanci- 
pated. I  am  not  sure  I  even  wish  that.  Still,  whatever  the 
future  may  bring  forth,  of  this,  my  dear  mother,  I  am  deter- 
mined to  make  a  clean  breast  to-night,  so  that  you  shall  never 
have  cause  to  charge  me  with  lack  of  frankness  or  of  attempt 
to  deceive  you." 

Yet,  at  the  moment,  the  poor  mother's  heart  cried  out  to  be 
deceived,  if  thereby  it  might  be  eased  a  little  of  suffering. 
Then,  a  nobler  spirit  prevailing  within  her,  Katherine  rallied 
her  fortitude.  Better  he  should  be  bound  to  her  even  by 
cynical  avowal  of  projected  vice,  than  not  bound  at  all. 
Listening  now,  she  gained  the  right — a  bitter  enough  right — 
to  command  a  measure  of  his  confidence  in  those  still  darker 
days  which,  as  she  apprehended,  only  too  certainly  lay  ahead. 
So  she  answered  calmly  :  — 

"  Go  on,  Richard.  As  you  say  we  may  differ  in  the 
future.  I  may  disapprove,  but  I  can  be  silent.  You  are 
right.     It  is  better  for  us  both  that  I  should  hear." 

And  once  more  the  young  man  was  compelled  to  yield  her 
a  grudging  admiration.     His  tone  softened  somewhat. 


A  SLIP  BETWIXT  CUP  AND  LIP  409 

"  I  don't  like  to  see  you  stand,  mother,"  he  said.  "  Our 
conversation  may  be  prolonged.  One  never  quite  knows 
what  may  crop  up.  You  will  be  overtired.  And  to-morrow, 
when  I  am  gone,  there  will  be  things  to  do." 

Lady  Calmady  drew  forward  the  chair  from  the  end  of  the 
writing-table.  Her  back  was  towards  the  lamp,  her  face  in 
shadow.  Of  this  she  was  glad.  In  a  degree  it  lessened  the 
strain.  The  sweet,  night  air,  coming  in  at  the  open  case- 
ments, fluttered  the  lace  on  her  bodice,  as  with  the  touch  of  a 
light,  cool  hand.  Of  this  she  was  glad  too.  It  was  refresh- 
ing, and  she  grew  increasingly  exhausted  and  physically  weak. 
Richard  observed  her,  not  without  solicitude. 

"  I  am  afraid  you  are  not  well,  mother,"  he  said. 

But  Katherine  shook  her  head,  smiling  upon  him  with 
misty  eyes  and  lips  somewhat  tremulous. 

"  I  am  always  well,"  she  replied.  "  Only  to-night  it  has 
been  given  me  to  scale  heights  and  sound  opposing  depths, 
and  I  am  a  little  overcome  by  perplexity  and  by  surprise.  But 
what  does  that  signify  ?  I  shall  have  plenty  of  time — too 
much  probably — in  which  to  rest  and  range  my  ideas  when — 
you  are  gone,  my  dearest." 

"  You  must  not  be  here  alone." 

"  Oh  no  !  People  will  visit  me,  no  doubt,  animated  by  kindly 
wishes  to  lessen  my  solitude,"  she  answered,  still  smiling. 
Remembrance  of  Honoria  St.  Quentin's  letter  came  to  her 
mind.  Could  it  be  that  the  girl  had  some  inkling  of  what  was 
in  store  for  her,  and  that  this  had  inspired  the  slight  over- 
warmth  of  her  protestations  of  affection  ? — "  Honoria  would 
always  be  ready  to  come,  should  I  ask  her,"  she  said. 

All  solicitude  passed  from  Richard's  expression,  all  soften- 
ing from  his  tone. 

"  By  all  means  ask  her.  That  would  cap  the  climax,  and 
round  the  irony  of  the  situation  to  admiration  !  " 

"  Indeed  ?      Why  ?  "     Katherine    inquired,    painfully    in? 
pressed  by  the  renewed  bitterness  of  his  manner. 

^'  If  you're  fond  of  her  that  is  convincingly  suiHcient.  She 
and  I  have  never  been  very  sympathetic,  but  that's  a  detail.  I 
shall  be  gone.  Therefore  pray  have  her,  or  anybody  else  you 
happen  to  fancy,  so  long  as  you  do  have  some  one.  You 
mustn't  be  here  alone." 

'^Julius  remains  faithful  through  all  chances  and  changes." 


410  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

"  But  I  imagine  even  Julius  has  sufficient  social  sense  to 
perceive  that  faithfulness  may  be  a  little  out  of  place  at  this 
juncture.  At  least  I  sincerely  hope  he'll  perceive  it,  for 
otherwise  he  will  have  to  be  made  to  do  so — and  that  will  be 
a  nuisance." 

"  Dickie,  Dickie,  what  are  you  Implying  ?  "  Lady  Calmady 
exclaimed.  "  By  what  strange  and  unlovely  thoughts  are  you 
possessed  to-night  ?  " 

"  I  am  learning  to  look  at  things  as  the  average  man  of  the 
world  looks  at  them,  that's  all,"  he  said.  "  We  have  been 
too  refined,  you  and  I,  to  be  self-critical,  with  the  conse- 
quence that  we  have  allowed  ourselves  a  considerable  degree 
of  latitude  in  many  directions.  Julius'  permanent  residence 
here  ranks  among  the  fine-fanciful  disregardlngs  of  accepted 
proprieties  with  which  we  have  indulged  ourselves.  But 
spades  are  to  be  called  spades  in  future — at  least  by  me.  So, 
for  the  very  same  reason  that  I  go  forth,  like  the  average  man 
of  the  world,  to  enjoy  the  pleasures  of  sin  for  a  season,  do  I 
object  to  Julius,  or  any  other  man,  being  your  guest  during 
my  absence,  unless  you  have  some  woman  of  your  own  posi- 
tion in  life  living  here  with  you.  The  levels  In  social  matters 
have  changed,  once  and  for  all.  I  have  come  to  a  sane  mind 
and  renounced  the  eccentric  subterfuges  and  paltry  hypocri- 
sies, by  means  of  which  we  have  attempted,  you  and  I,  to 
keep  disagreeable  facts  at  bay.  Truth,  naked  and  unabasha- 
ble,  is  the  only  goddess  I  worship  henceforth." 

He  leaned  forward,  laying  his  hands  upon  the  arms  of  his 
chair.  His  manner  was  harsh  still.  But  all  coldness  had  de- 
parted from  It,  rather  did  a  white  heat  of  passion  consume 
him  dreadful  to  witness. 

"  Yes,  it  is  wisest  to  repeat  that,  so  that,  on  your  part,  there 
may  be  no  excuse  for  any  shadow  of  misapprehension.  The 
levels  have  altered.  The  old  ones  can  never  be  restored.  I 
want  to  have  you  grasp  this,  mother — swallow  it,  digest  it,  so 
that  it  passes  into  fibre  and  tissue  of  your  every  thought  about 
me.  For  an  acutely,  unscientific,  an  ingeniously  unreasona- 
ble, idea  obtains  widely  among  respectable,  sentimental,  so- 
called  religious  persons,  regarding  those  who  are  the  victims 
of  disfiguring  accident,  or,  like  myself,  are  physically  disgraced 
from  birth.  Because  we  have  been  deprived  of  our  natural 
rights,  because  we  have  so  abominably  little,  we  are  expected 


A  SLIP  BETWIXT  CUP  AND  LIP  411 

to  be  slavishly  grateful  for  the  contemptible  pittance  that  we 
have.  Because,  slothfully,  by  His  neglect,  or,  wantonly,  for 
His  amusement,  the  Creator  has  tortured  us,  maiming,  distort- 
ing us  up  as  a  laughing-stock  before  all  man  and  womankind 
— because  He  has  played  a  ghastly  and  brutal  practical  joke 
on  us,  fixing  the  marks  of  low  comedy  in  our  living  flesh  and 
bone — therefore  we,  forsooth,  are  to  be  more  pious,  more 
clean-living,  temperate,  and  discreet  than  the  rest — to  bow'. 
amiably  beneath  the  cross,  gratefully  to  kiss  the  rod !  Those 
irregularities  of*  conduct  which  are  smiled  at,  and  taken  for 
granted,  in  a  man  made  after  the  normal,  comely  fashion,  be- 
come a  scandal  in  the  case  of  a  poor,  unhappy  devil  like  me, 
at  which  good  people  hold  up  their  hands  in  horror.  Faugh  ! 
— I  tell  you  I'm  sick  of  such  cowardly  cant.  A  pretty  ex- 
ample the  Almighty's  set  me  of  justice  and  mercy  !  Hand- 
some encouragement  He  has  given  me  to  be  virtuous  and 
sober!  Much  I  have  for  which  to  praise  His  holy  name! 
Arbitrarily,  without  excuse,  or  faintest  show  of  antecedent 
reason.  He  has  elected  to  curse.  And  the  curse  will  cling 
forever  and  ever,  till  they  lay  me  in  a  coffin  nearly  half  as 
short  again  as  that  of  any  other  man,  and  leave  the  hideous- 
ness  of  my  deformity  to  be  obliterated  and  purged  at  last — 
eaten  away  by  the  worms  in  the  dark." 

Richard  stretched  out  his  hands,  palms  upward. 

"  And  in  return  for  all  this  shall  I  bless  i  No,  indeed — no, 
thank  you.  Not  even  towards  God  Almighty  Himself  will  I 
play  the  part  of  lick-spittle  and  sycophant.  I  have  fine 
enough  stufF  in  me,  let  alone  the  energy  begotten  by  the 
flagrance  of  His  injustice,  to  take  higher  grounds  with  Him 
than  that.  I  will  break  what  men  hold  to  be  His  laws, 
wherever  and  whenever  I  can — I  will  make  hay  of  His  so- 
called  natural  and  moral  order,  just  as  often  as  I  get  the 
chance.     I  will  curse,  and  again,  curse  back." 

The  speaker's  voice  was  deep  and  resonant,  filling  the 
whole  room.  His  utterance  deliberate  and  unshaken.  His 
face  dark  with  the  malign  beauty  of  implacable  hatred.  Hear- 
ing him,  seeing  him  thus,  Katherine  Calmady's  fortitude  for- 
sook her.  She  ceased  to  distinguish  or  discriminate.  Na- 
ture gave  way.  She  knelt  upon  the  floor  before  him,  her 
hands  clasped,  tears  coursing  down  her  checks.  But  of  her 
attitude  and  aspect  she  was  unconscious. 


412  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

"Oh,  Richard,  Richard  !  "  she  cried,  "  forgive  me.  Curse 
me,  my  dearest,  throw  all  the  blame  on  me,  my  dearest — I 
accept  it — not  on  God.  Only  try,  try  to  forgive  !  Forgive 
me  for  being  your  mother.  Forgive  me  that  I  ever  loved  and 
married.  Forgive  me  the  intolerable  wrong  which,  all  un- 
knowingly, I  did  you  before  your  birth.  I  humble  myself  be- 
fore you,  and  with  reason.  For  I  am  the  cause,  I,  who  would 
give  my  life  for  your  happiness,  my  blood  for  your  healing,  a 
thousand  times.  But  through  all  these  years  I  have  done  my 
poor  best  to  serve  you  and  to  make  up.  The  hypocrisies  and 
subterfuges  which  you  lash  so  scornfully — and  rightly  perhaps 
— were  the  fruit  of  my  overcare  for  you.  Rail  at  me.  I  de- 
serve it.  Perhaps  I  have  been  faithless,  but  only  once  or 
twice,  and  for  a  moment.  I  was  faithless  towards  you  here, 
in  the  garden  to-night.  But  then  I  supposed  you  content. 
Ah !  I  hardly  know  what  I  say  ! — Only  rail  at  me,  my  be- 
loved, not  at  God.  And  then  try — try  not  to  leave  me  in  an- 
ger.    Try,  before  you  go,  to  forgive  !  " 

Richard  had  sunk  back  in  his  chair,  his  hands  clasped  under 
his  head,  watching  her.  It  gave  him  the  strangest  sensation 
to  see  his  mother  kneeling  before  him  thus.  At  first  it  shocked 
him  almost  to  the  point  of  heated  protest,  as  against  a  thing 
impermissible  and  indecorous.  Then  the  devils  of  wounded 
pride,  of  anarchy,  and  of  revolt  asserting  themselves,  he  began 
to  relish,  to  be  appeased  by,  the  unseemly  sight.  Little  Lady 
Constance  Quayle,  and  all  that  of  which  she  was  the  symbol, 
had  disappointed  and  escaped  him.  But  here  was  a  woman, 
worth  a  dozen  Constance  Quayles,  in  beauty,  in  intellect,  and 
in  heart,  prostrate  before  him,  imploring  his  clemency  as  the 
penitent  implores  the  absolution  of  the  priest !  An  evil  glad- 
ness took  him  that  he  had  power  thus  to  subjugate  so  regal  a 
creature.  His  gluttony  of  inflicting  pain — since  he  himself 
suffered — his  gluttony  of  exercising  dominion — since  he  him- 
self had  been  defied  and  defrauded — was  in  a  degree  satisfied. 
His  arrogance  was  at  once  reinforced  and  assuaged. 

"  It  is  absurd  to  speak  of  forgiveness,"  he  said  presently, 
and  slowly,  "as  it  is  absurd  to  speak  of  restitution.  These 
are  mere  words,  having  no  real  tally  in  fact.  We  appear  to 
have  volition,  but  actually  and  essentially  we  are  as  leaves 
driven  by  the  wind.  Where  it  blindly  drives,  there  we  blindly 
go.     So  it  has  been  from  the  beginning.     So  it  always  will  be. 


A  SLIP  BETWIXT  CUP  AND  LIP  413 

In  the  last  twenty-four  hours  there  are  many  things  I  have 
ceased  to  believe  in,  and  among  them,  my  dear  mother,  is 
human  responsibility." 

He  paused,  and  motioned  Lady  Calmady  towards  her  chair 
with  a  certain  authority. 

"  Therefore  calm  yourself,"  he  said.  "  Grieve  as  little  as 
may  be  about  all  this  matter,  and  let  us  talk  it  over  without 
further  emotion." 

He  waited  a  brief  space,  giving  her  time  to  recover  her  com- 
posure, and  then  continued  coldly,  with  a  careful  abstention 
from  any  show  of  feeling. 

"  Let  us  clear  our  minds  of  cant,  and  go  forward  knowing 
that  there  is  really  neither  good  nor  evil.  For  these — even  as 
God  Himself,  whose  existence  I  treated  from  the  anthro-po- 
morphic  standpoint  just  now,  so  as  to  supply  myself  with  a 
target  to  shoot  at,  a  windmill  at  which  to  tilt,  a  row  of  nine- 
pins set  up  for  the  mere  satisfaction  of  knocking  them  down 
again — these  are  plausible  delusions  invented  by  man,  in  the 
vain  effort  to  protect  himself  and  his  fellows  from  the  pro- 
found sense  of  loneliness,  and  impotence,  which  seizes  on  him 
if  he  catches  so  much  as  a  passing  glimpse  of  the  gross  com- 
edy of  human  aspiration,  human  affection,  briefly,  human  ex- 
istence." 

But,  strive  as  he  might,  excitement  gained  on  Richard  once 
more,  for  young  blood  is  hot  and  gallops  masterfully  along  the 
veins,  specially  under  the  whip  of  real  or  imagined  disgrace. 
He  sat  upright,  grasping  the  arms  of  his  chair,  and  looking, 
not  at  his  mother,  but  away  into  the  deep  of  the  summer 
night. 

''  Perhaps  my  personal  peculiarities  confer  on  me  unusually 
acute  perception  of  the  inherent  grossness  of  the  human  com- 
edy. I  propose  to  take  the  lesson  to  heart.  They  teach  me 
not  to  sacrifice  the  present  to  the  future,  but  to  fling  away 
ideals  like  so  much  waste  paper,  and  just  take  that  which  I  can 
immediately  get.  They  tell  me  to  limit  my  horizon,  and  go 
the  common  way  of  common,  coarse-grained,  sensual  man — 
in  as  far  as  that  way  is  possible  to  me — and  be  of  this  world 
worldly.  And  so,  mother,  I  want  you  to  understand  that  from 
this  day  forth  I  turn  over  a  new  leaf,  not  only  in  thought,  but 
in  conduct.  I  am  going  to  have  just  all  that  my  money  and 
position,  and  even  this  vile  deformity — for,  by  God,  I'll  use 


414  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

that  too — what  people  won't  give  for  love  they'll  give  for  cu- 
riosity— can  bring  me  of  pleasure  and  notoriety.     I  am  going 
to  lay   hold  of  life  with   these  rather  horribly  strong  arms  of 
mine  " — he  looked  across    at  Lady   Calmady   with    a    sneer- 
ing smile. — "Strong  ?  "  he  repeated,  "  strong  as  a  young  bull- 
ape's.     I   mean   to   tear  the  very   vitals  out  of  living,  to  tear 
knowledge,  excitement,  intoxication,  out  of  it,  making  them, 
by  right  of  conquest,  my  own.     I  will  compel  existence   to 
yield  me  all  that  it  yields  other  men,  and  more — because  my 
senses  are  finer,  my  acquaintance  with  sorrow  more  intimate, 
my  quarrel  with  fortune  more  vital  and  more  just.     I  am  not 
stupid.     I  shall  not  follow  the  beaten  track.     My  imagination 
-has  been  stimulated  into  rather  dangerous  activity  by  the  pre- 
natal insult  put  upon  me.     And  now  that  I  have  emancipated 
myself,  I  propose  to  apply  my  imagination  practically.'' 
The  young  man  flung  himself  back  in  his  chair  again. 
**  There  ought  to  be  startling  results,"  he  said,  with  gloomy 
exultation.      ** Don't  you  think  so,  mother?     There  should  be 
startling  results." 

Lady  Calmady  bowed  herself  together,  putting  her  hands 
over  her  eyes.  Then  raising  her  head,  she  managed  to  smile 
at  him,  though  very  sadly,  her  sweet  face  drawn  by  exhaustion 
and  marred  by  lately  shed  tears. 

*'Ah!  yes,  my  dearest,"  she  answered,  '' no  doubt  the  re- 
sults will  be  startling,  but  whether  any  sensible  increase  of 
happiness,  either  to  yourself  or  others,  will  be  counted  among 
them  is  open  to  question." 

Richard  laughed  bitterly.  —  '*!  shall  have  lived,  anyhow," 
he  rejoined.  ''Worn  out,  not  rusted  and  rotted  out — which, 
according  to  our  former  fme-fanciful  programme,  seemed  the 
only  probable  consummation  of  my  unlucky  existence." 

His  tone  changed,  becoming  quietly  businesslike  and  indif- 
ferent. 

"  I  am  entering  horses  for  some  of  the  French  events,  and  I 
go  through  to  Paris  to-morrow  to  see  various  men  there  and 
make  the  necessary  arrangements.  I  shall  take  Chifney  with 
me  for  a  few  days.  But  the  stables  will  not  give  you  any 
trouble.  He  will  have  given  all  the  orders." 
"  Very  well,"  Katherine  said  mechanically. 


A  SLIP  BETWIXT  CUP  AND  LIP  415 

"  Later  I  shall  go  on  to  Baden-Baden." 

Katherine  rallied  somewhat. 

"  Helen  de  Vallorbes  is  there,"  she  said,  not  without  a  trace 
of  her  former  pride. 

"  Certainly  Helen  de  Vallorbes  is  there,"  he  answered* 
*^  That  is  why  I  go.  I  want  to  see  her.  It  is  inconsistent,  I 
admit,  for  Helen  remains  the  one  person  gloriously  untouched 
by  the  wreck  of  the  former  order  of  things.  Pray  let  there  be 
no  misconception  on  that  point.  She  belonged  to  the  ideal 
order,  she  belongs  to  it  still." 

"  Ah,  my  dear,  my  dear  !  "  Katherine  almost  cried.  Hi& 
perversity  hurt  her  a  little  too  much  so  that  the  small,  up- 
springing  flame  of  decent  pride  was  quenched. 

"Yes,"  he  went  on,  "  there  was  my  initial,  my  cardinal, 
mistake.  For  I  was  a  traitor  to  all  that  was  noblest  and  best 
in  me,  when  1  persuaded  myself,  and  weakly  permitted  you  to- 
persuade  me,  that  a  loveless  marriage  is  better  than  a  love  in 
which  marriage  is  impossible, — that  Lady  Constance  Quayle, 
poor  little  soul,  bought,  paid  for,  and  my  admitted  property, 
could  fill  Helen's  place, — though  Helen  was — and  I  intend 
her  to  remain  so,  for  I  care  for  her  enough  to  hold  her  honour 
as  sacred  as  I  do  your  own — forever  inaccessible." 

Lady  Calmady  staggered  to  her  feet. 

"  That  is  enough,  Richard,"  she  said.  "  That  is  enough,. 
If  you  have  more  to  say,  in  pity  leave  it  until  to-morrow." 

The  young  man  looked  at  her  strangely. 

"  You  are  ill,  mother,"  he  said. 

"  No,  no,  I  am  only  broken-hearted,"  she  replied.  "  And 
a  broken  heart,  alas  !  never  killed  so  healthy  a  body  as  mine. 
I  shall  survive  this — and  more  perhaps.  God  knows.  Do 
not  vex  yourself  about  me,  Dickie. — Go,  live  your  life  as  It 
seems  fit  to  you.  I  have  not  the  will,  even  had  I  the  right, 
to  restrain  you.  And  meanwhile  I  will  be  the  steward  of 
your  goods,  as,  long  ago,  when  you  were  a  child  and  belonged 
to  me  wholly.  You  can  trust  me  to  be  faithful  and  discreet, 
at  least  in  financial  and  practical  matters.  If  you  ever  need 
me,  I  will  come  even  to  the  ends  of  the  earth.  And  should 
the  desire  take  you  to  return,  here  you  will  find  me. — And  so,. 
good-bye,  my  darling.  I  am  foolishly  tired.  I  grow  light- 
headed, and  dare  not  linger,  lest  in  my  weakness  I  say  that 
which  I  afterwards  regret." 


4i6  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

She  passed  to  the  door  and  went  out,  without  looking  back. 

Left  to  himself  Richard  Calmady  crossed  to  the  writing- 
table,  swung  himself  up  Into  the  revolving-chair,  and  remained 
there  sorting  and  docketing  papers  far  Into  the  night.  But 
once,  stooping,  with  long-armed  adroitness,  to  unlock  the 
lowest  drawer  of  the  table,  a  madness  of  disgust  towards  the 
unsightliness  of  his  own  person  seized  on  and  tore  him. 

"  Oh  !  God,  God,  God,"  he  cried  aloud,  in  the  extremity 
of  his  passion,  "  why  hast  Thou  made  me  thus  ?  " 

And  to  that  question,  as  yet,  there  was  no  answer,  though 
it  rang  afar  over  the  sleeping  park,  and  up  to  the  clear  shining 
stars  of  the  profound  and  peaceful  summer  night. 


BOOK    V 

RAKE'S  PROGRESS 

CHAPTER  I 

IN  WHICH  THE  READER  IS  COURTEOUSLY  ENTREATED  TO  GROW 
OLDER  BY  THE  SPACE  OF  SOME  FOUR  YEARS,  AND  TO  SAII. 
SOUTHWARD  HO  !  AWAY 

'TpHE  southeasterly  wind  came  fresh  across  the  bay  from 
the  crested  range  of  the  Monte  Sant'  Angelo.  The 
blossoms  of  the  Judas-trees,  breaking  from  the  smooth  gray 
stems  and  branches — on  which  they  perch  so  quaintly — fell  in 
a  red-mauve  shower  upon  the  slabs  of  the  marble  pavement^ 
upon  the  mimic  waves  of  the  fountain  basin,  and  upon  the. 
clustering  curls,  and  truncated  shoulders,  of  the  bust  of 
Homer  standing  in  the  shade  of  the  grove  of  cypress  and  ilex 
which  sheltered  the  square,  high-lying  hill-garden,  at  this  hour 
of  the  morning,  from  the  fierceness  of  the  sun.  They  floated 
as  far  even  as  the  semicircular  steps  of  the  pavilion  on  the 
extreme  right — the  leaded  dome  of  which  showed  dark  and 
livid  on  the  one  side,  white  and  glistering  on  the  other,  against 
the  immense  and  radiant  panorama  of  mountain,  sea,  and  sky. 
The  garden,  its  fountains,  neatly  clipped  shrubs,  and  formal 
paved  alleys,  was  backed  by  a  large  villa  of  the  square,  flat- 
roofed  order  common  to  southern  Italy.  The  record  of  its 
age  had  recently  suflFered  modification  by  application  of  a  coat 
of  stucco,  of  a  colour  intermediate  between  faint  lemon-yellow 
and  pearl-gray,  and  by  the  renovation  of  the  fine  arabesques — 
Pompeian  in  character — decorating  the  narrow  interspaces^ 
between  its   treble  range  of  Venetian  shutters.     Otherwise^ 

417 


4i8  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

the  aspect  of  the  Villa  Vallorbes  showed  but  small  alteration 
since  the  year  when,  for  a  few  socially  historic  weeks,  the 
"glorious  Lady  Blessington,"  and  her  strangely  assorted  train, 
condescended  to  occupy  it  prior  to  taking  up  their  residence 
at  the  Palazzo  Belvedere, near  by.  The  walls  were  sufficiently 
massive  to  withstand  a  siege.  The  windows  of  the  ground 
floor,  set  in  deeply-hewn  ashlar  work,  were  cross-barred  as 
those  of  a  prison.  Above,  the  central  windows  and  door  of 
the  entresol,  opened  on  to  a  terrace  of  black  and  white  marble, 
from  which  at  cither  end  a  wide,  shallow-stepped,  curved 
stairway  led  down  into  the  garden.  The  first  floor  consisted 
of  a  suite  of  noble  rooms,  each  of  whose  lofty  windows  gave 
on  to  a  balcony  of  wrought  ironwork,  very  ornate  in  design. 
The  topmost  story,  immediately  below  the  painted  frieze  of 
the  parapet,  coincided  in  height  and  in  detail  with  the  entresol. 

The  villa  was  superbly  situated  upon  an  advancing  spur  of 
hill,  so  that,  looking  down  from  its  balconies,  looking  out  from 
between  the  pale  and  slender  columns  of  the  pavilion,  the 
whole  city  of  Naples  lay  revealed  below. — Naples,  that  be- 
wildering union  of  modern  commerce  and  classic  association 
— its  domes,  its  palms,  its  palaces,  its  crowded,  hoarse-shout- 
ing quays,  its  theatres  and  giant  churches,  its  steep  and  filthy 
lanes  black  with  shadow,  its  reeking  markets,  its  broad,  sun- 
scorched  piazzas,  its  glittering,  blue  waters,  its  fringing  forest 
of  tall  masts,  and  innumerable,  close-packed  hulls  of  ocean- 
going ships  !  Naples,  city  of  glaring  contrasts — heaven  of 
rascality,  hell  of  horses,  unrivaled  all  the  western  world  over 
for  natural  beauty,  for  spiritual  and  moral  grossness  !  Naples, 
breeding,  teeming,  laughing,  fighting,  festering,  city  of  music, 
city  of  fever  and  death  !  Naples,  at  once  abominable  and  en- 
chanting— city  to  which,  spite  of  noise,  stenches,  cruelty  and 
squalor,  those  will  return,  of  necessity,  and  return  again, 
whose  imagination  has  once  been  taken  captive  in  the  meshes 
of  her  many-coloured  net ! 

And  among  the  captives  of  Naples,  on  the  brilliant  morning 
in  question  in  the  early  spring  of  the  year  1871,  open-eared 
and  open-eyed  to  its  manifest  and  manifold  incongruities, 
relishing  alike  the  superficial  beauty  and  underlying  bestiality 
of  it,  was  very  certainly  Helen  de  Vallorbes.  Several  years 
had  elapsed  since  she  had  visited  this  fascinating  locality,  and 
she  could  congratulate  herself  upon  conditions  adapted  to  a 


RAKE'S  PROGRESS  419^ 

more  intimate  and  comprehensive  acquaintance  with  its  verjr 
various  humours  than  she  had  ever  enjoyed  before.  She  had 
spent  more  than  one  winter  here,  it  is  true,  immediately  sub- 
sequent to  her  marriage.  But  she  had  then  been  required  to 
associate  exclusively  with  the  members  of  her  husband's 
family,  and  to  fill  a  definite  position  in  the  aristocratic  society 
of  the  place.  The  tone  of  that  society  was  not  a  little  lax. 
Yet,  being  notably  defective  in  the  saving  grace  of  humour — 
as  to  the  feminine  portion  of  it,  at  all  events — its  laxity  proved 
sadly  deficient  in  vital  interest.  The  fair  Neapolitans  dis- 
played as  small  intelligence  in  their  intrigues  as  in  their  piety. 
In  respect  of  both  they  remained  ignorant,  prejudiced,  hope- 
lessly conventional.  Their  noble  ancestresses  of  the  Renais- 
sance understood  and  did  these  things  better — so  Helen 
reflected.  She  found  herself  both  bored  and  irritated.  She 
feared  she  had  taken  up  her  residence  in  southern  Italy  quite 
three  centuries  too  late. 

But  all  that  was  in  the  past — heaven  be  praised  for  it !  Just 
now  she  was  her  own  mistress,  at  liberty — thanks  to  the  for- 
tune of  war — to  comport  herself  as  she  pleased  and  obey  any 
caprice  that  took  her.  The  position  was  ideal  in  its  freedom,, 
while  the  intrinsic  value  of  it  was  enhanced  by  contrast  with 
recent  disagreeable  experiences.  For  the  alarms  and  depriva- 
tions of  the  siege  of  Paris  were  but  lately  over.  She  had 
come  through  them  unscathed  in  health  and  fortune.  Yet 
they  had  left  their  mark.  During  those  months  of  all-encom- 
passing disappointment  and  disaster  the  eternal  laughter — in 
which  she  trusted — had  rung  harshly  sardonic,  to  the  breaking 
down  of  self-confidence,  and  light-hearted,  cynic  philosophy. 
It  scared  her  somewhat.  It  made  her  feel  old.  It  chilled  her 
with  suspicion  of  the  actuality  of  The  Four  Last  Things — 
death  and  judgment,  heaven  and  hell.  The  power  of  a  merry 
scepticism  waxed  faint  amid  the  scream  of  shells  and  long- 
drawn,  murderous  crackle  of  the  mitrailleuse,  Helen,  indeed^, 
became  actively  superstitious,  thereby  falling  low  in  her  own 
self-esteem.  She  took  to  frequenting  churches,  and  spending 
long,  still  days  with  the  nuns,  her  former  teachers,  within  the 
convent  of  the  Sacre  CcEur.  Circumstances  so  worked  upon 
her  that  she  made  her  submission,  and  was  solemnly  and  duly 
received  back  into  the  fold  of  the  Church.  She  confessed- 
ardently,  yet  with   certain   politic   reservations.      The   priest^ 


420  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

after  all,  is  but  human.  It  is  only  charitable  to  be  considerate 
of  his  feelings — so  she  argued — and  avoid  overburdening  his 
conscience,  poor  dear  man,  by  blackening  your  own  reputa- 
tion too  violently  !  The  practice  of  religion  was  a  help — 
truly  it  was,  since  it  served  to  pass  the  time.  And  then,  who 
could  tell  but  that  it  might  not  prove  really  useful  hereafter, 
as,  when  all  is  said  and  done,  those  dread  Four  Last  Things 
will  present  themselves  to  the  mind,  in  hours  of  depression 
with  haunting  pertinacity  ?  It  is  clearly  wise,  then,  to  be  on 
the  safe  side  of  Holy  Church  in  these  matters,  accepting  her 
own  assertion  that  she  is  very  certainly  on  the  safe  side  of  the 
Deity. 

Yet,  notwithstanding  her  pious  exercises,  Helen  de  Vallor- 
bes  found  existing  circumstances  excessively  disturbing  and 
disquieting.  She  was  filled  with  an  immense  self-pity.  She 
feared  her  health  was  failing.  She  became  nervously  sensible 
of  her  eight-and-twenty  years,  telling  herself  that  her  youth 
and  the  glory  of  it  had  departed.  She  wore  black  dresses, 
rolled  bandages,  pulled  lint.  Selecting  Mary  Magdalene  as 
her  special  intercessor,  she  made  a  careful  study  of  the  life  and 
legends  of  that  saint.  This  proved  stimulating  to  her  imagina- 
tion. She  proceeded  to  write  a  little  one-act  drama  concern- 
ing the  holy  woman's  dealings,  subsequent  to  her  conversion, 
^quite  late  in  life  in  fact,  with  such  as  survived  of  her  former 
lovers.  The  dialogue  was  very  moving  in  parts.  Helen  read 
it  aloud  one  bleak  January  evening,  by  the  light  of  a  single 
-candle,  to  her  friend  M.  Paul  Destournelle,  poet  and  novelist 
— with  whom,  just  then,  by  her  own  desire,  her  relations  were 
severely  platonic — and  they  both  wept.  The  application, 
though  delicate,  was  obvious.  And  those  tears  appeared  to 
lay  the  dust  of  so  many  pleasant  sins,  and  promise  fertilisation 
of  so  heavy  a  crop  of  virtue,  that — by  inevitable  action  of  the 
law  of  contraries — the  two  friends  found  it  more  than  ever 
difficult  to  say  farewell  and  part  that  night. 

Now  looking  back  on  all  that,  viewing  it  calmly  in  per- 
spective, her  action  and  attitude  struck  Helen  as  somewhat 
imbecile.  Prayer  and  penitence  have  too  often  a  tendency 
to  kick  the  beam  when  fear  ceases  to  weight  the  balance. 
And  so  it  followed  that  the  lust  of  the  flesh,  the  lust  of  the 
-eye,  and  the  pride  of  life,  presented  themselves  to  her  as 
powers  by  no  means  contemptible,  or  unworthy  of  invocation. 


RAKE'S  PROGRESS  421 

this  morning,  while  she  sat  at  the  luxuriously  furnished  break- 
fast-table beneath  the  glistering  dome  of  the  airy  pavilion  and 
gazed  out  between  its  slender  columns,  over  the  curving  lines 
of  the  painted  city  and  glittering  waters  of  the  bay,  to  the 
cone  of  Vesuvius  rising,  in  imperial  purple,  against  the  azure 
sky.  To-day,  sign,  as  she  noted,  of  fine  weather,  omen,  as 
she  trusted,  of  good  fortune,  the  smoke  of  its  everlasting 
burnings  towered  up  and  up  into  the  translucent  atmosphere, 
and  then  drifted  away — a  gigantic,  wedge-shaped  pennon — 
towards  Capri  and  the  open  sea.  And,  beholding  these  things,, 
out  of  simple,  physical  well-being,  fulness  of  bread,  convic- 
tion of  her  own  undiminished  beauty,  and  the  merry  devilry 
begotten  of  these,  she  fell  to  projecting  a  second,  a  com- 
panion, one-act  drama  founded  upon  the  life  of  the  Magdalene, 
but,  this  time,  before  the  saint's  conversion,  at  an  altogether 
earlier  stage  of  her  very  instructive  history.  And  this  drama 
she  would  not  read  to  M.  Destournelle — not  a  bit  of  it.  In 
it  he  should  have  neither  part  nor  lot. —  Registering  which  de- 
termination, she  shook  her  charming,  honey-coloured  head,, 
holding  up  both  hands  with  a  gesture  of  humorous  and  well- 
defined  repudiation. 

For,  in  truth,  the  day  of  M.  Destournelle  appeared,  just 
now,  to  be  very  effectually  over.  It  had  been  reasonable 
enough  to  urge  her  natural  fears  in  journeying  through  a  war- 
distracted  land — although  guarded  by  Charles,  most  discreet 
and  resourceful  of  English  men-servants,  and  Zelie  Forestier, 
most  capable  of  French  lady's-maids — as  excuse  for  Paul 
Destournelle  joining  her  at  a  wayside  station  a  short  distance 
out  of  Paris  and  accompanying  her  south.  A  la  guerre  comme 
a  la  guerre,  A  beautiful  v/oman  can  hardly  be  too  careful  of 
her  person  amid  the  many  and  primitive  dangers  which  battle 
and  invasion  let  loose.  De  Vallorbes  himself — detestably 
jealous  though  he  was — could  hardly  have  objected  to  her  thus 
securing  effective  protection,  had  he  been  acquainted  with  the 
fact.  That  he  was  not  so  acquainted  was,  of  course,  the 
veriest  oversight.  But,  the  frontier  once  reached — the  better 
part  of  three  weeks  had  elapsed  in  the  reaching  of  it — and  all 
danger  of  war  and  tumult  past,  both  the  necessity  and,  to  be 
frank,  the  entertainment  of  M.  Destournelle's  presence  be- 
came less  convincing.  Helen  grew  a  trifle  weary  of  his  trans- 
ports, his  suspicions,  his  hel  tcte  de  Jesu  souffrant^  his  insatiable 


422  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

literary  and  personal  vanity.  The  charm,  the  excitement,  of 
the  situation,  began  to  wear  rather  threadbare,  while  the  prac- 
tical inconveniences  and  restrictions  it  imposed  increasingly 
disclosed  themselves.  A  lover,  as  Helen  reflected,  provided 
you  see  enough  of  him,  offers  but  small  improvement  upon  a 
husband.  He  is  liable  to  become  possessive  and  didactic,  after 
the  manner  of  the  natural  man.  He  is  liable  to  forget  that 
the  relation  is  permitted,  not  legalised — that  it  exists  on  suf- 
france  merely,  and  is  therefore  terminable  at  the  will  of  either 
party.  The  last  days  of  that  same  southern  journey  had  been 
marked  by  misunderstandings  and  subsequent  reconciliations, 
in  an  ascending  scale  of  acrimony  and  fervour  on  the  part  of 
iier  companion.  In  Helen's  case  familiarity  tended  very  rap- 
idly to  breed  contempt.  She  ceased  to  be  in  the  least  amused 
by  these  recurring  agitations.  At  Pisa,  after  a  scene  of  a  par- 
ticularly excited  nature,  she  lost  all  patience,  frankly  told  her 
admirer  that  she  found  him  not  a  little  ridiculous,  and  re- 
quested him  to  remove  himself,  his  grievances,  and  his  bel  tete 
de  Jesu  elsewhere.  M.  Destournelle  took  refuge  in  nerves, 
threats  of  morphia,  and  his  bedchamber, — in  the  chaste  seclu- 
sion of  which  apartment  Helen  left  him,  unvisited  and  uncon  - 
soled,  while,  attended  by  her  servants,  she  gaily  resumed  her 
journey. 

An  adorable  sense  of  independence  possessed  her,  of  the 
charm  of  her  own  society,  of  the  absence  of  all  external  com- 
pelling or  directing  of  her  movements — no  circumscription  of 
her  liberty  possible — the  world  before  her  where  to  choose  ! 
Not  only  were  privations,  dismal  hauntings  of  siege  and 
slaughter,  left  behind,  and  M.  Destournelle,  just  now  most 
wearisome  of  lovers,  left  behind  also,  but  de  Vallorbes  himself 
had,  for  the  time  being,  become  a  permissibly  negligible  quan- 
tity. The  news  of  more  fighting,  more  bloodshed,  had  just 
reached  her,  though  the  German  armies  were  marching  back 
to  the  now  wholly  German  Rhine.  For  upon  unhappy  Paris 
had  come  an  hour  of  deeper  humiliation  than  any  which  could 
be  procured  by  the  action  of  foreign  foes.  She  was  a  king- 
dom divided  against  herself,  a  mother  scandalously  torn  by  her 
own  children.  News  had  reached  Helen  too,  news  special 
and  highly  commendatory  of  her  husband,  Angelo  Luigi 
Trancesco.  Early  in  that  eventful  struggle  he  had  enlisted  in 
the  Garde  Mobile,  all  the  manhood  and  honest  sentiment  resi- 


RAKE'S  PROGRESS  423 

dent  in  him  stirred  into  fruitful  activity  by  the  shame  and  peril 
of  his  adopted  country.  Now  Helen  learned  he  had  distin- 
guished himself  in  the  holding  of  Chatillon  against  the  insur- 
gents, had  been  complimented  by  MacMahon  upon  his 
endurance  and  resource,  had  been  offered,  and  had  accepted,  a 
commission  in  the  regular  army.  Promotion  was  rapid  during 
the  later  months  of  the  war,  and  probability  pointed  to  the 
young  man  having  started  on  a  serious  military  career.  - 

"  Well,  let  him  both  start  and  continue,"  Helen  com- 
mented. ^'  I  am  the  last  person  to  be  otherwise  than  de- 
lighted thereat.  Just  in  proportion  as  he  is  occupied  he  ceases 
to  be  inconvenient.  If  he  succeeds — good.  If  he  is  shot — 
good  likewise.  For  him  laurels  and  a  hero's  tomb.  For  me 
crape  and  permanent  emancipation.  An  agreeably  romantic 
conclusion  to  a  profoundly  unromantic  marriage — fresh  proof, 
were  such  needed,  of  the  truth  of  the  immortal  Dr.  Pangloss' 
saying,  that  ^  all  is  for  the  best  in  this  best  of  all  possible 
worlds!'" 

In  such  happy  frame  of  mind  did  Madame  de  Vallorbes  con- 
tinue during  her  visit  to  Florence  and  upon  her  onward  way 
to  Perugia.  But  there  self-admiration  ceased  to  be  all-suffi- 
cient for  her.  She  needed  to  read  confirmation  of  that  ad- 
miration in  other  eyes.  And  the  gray  Etruscan  city,  uplifted 
on  its  star-shaped  hill,  offered  her  a  somewhat  grim  reception. 
Piercmg  winds  swept  across  the  Tiber  valley  from  the  still 
snow-clad  Apennines  above  Assisi.  The  austere,  dark-walled, 
lombard-gothic  churches  and  palaces  showed  forbidding,  merci- 
less almost,  through  the  driving  wet.  Even  in  fair  summer 
weather  suspicion  of  ancient  and  implacable  terror  lurks  in  the 
shadow  of  those  cyclopean  gateways,  and  stalks  over  the  un- 
yielding, rock-hewn  pavements  of  those  solemn  mediaeval 
streets.  There  was  an  incalculable  element  in  Perugia  which 
raised  a  certain  anger  in  Helen.  The  place  seemed  to  defy 
her  and  make  Hght  of  her  pretensions.  As  during  the  siege  of 
Paris,  so  now,  echoes  of  the  eternal  laughter  saluted  her  ears, 
ironic  in  tone. 

Nor  was  the  society  offered  by  the  residents  in  the  hotel, 
weather-bound  like  herself,  of  a  specially  enlivening  descrip- 
tion. It  was  composed  almost  exclusively  of  middle-aged 
English  and  American  ladies — widows  and  spinsters — of 
blameless    morals  and    anxiously   active    intelligence.     They 


424  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

wrapped  their  lean  forms  in  woolen  shawls  and  ill-cut  jackets. 
They  pervaded  salon  and  corridors  guide-book  in  hand.  They 
discoursed  of  Umbrian  antiquities,  Etruscan  tombs,  frescoes 
and  architecture.  Having  but  little  life  in  themselves,  they 
tried,  rather  vainly,  to  warm  both  hands  at  the  fire  of  the  life 
of  the  past.  Among  them,  Helen,  in  her  vigorous  and  self- 
secure,  though  fine-drawn,  beauty,  was  about  as  much  at  home 
as  a  young  panther  in  a  hen-roost.  They  admired,  they 
vaguely  feared,  they  greatly  wondered  at  her.  Had  one  of 
those  glorious  young  gallants,  Baglioni  or  Oddi,  clothed  in 
scarlet,  winged,  helmeted,  sword  on  thigh,  as  Perugino  has 
painted  them  on  the  walls  of  the  Sala  del  Cambio — very 
strangest  union  of  sensuous  worldliness  and  radiant  arch- 
angelic  grace — had  one  of  these  magnificent  gentlemen  ruffled 
into  the  hotel  parlour,  he  could  hardly  have  startled  the  eyes, 
and  perplexed  the  understanding,  of  the  virtuous  and  learned 
Anglo-Saxon  and  T^ransatlantic  feminine  beings  there  assem- 
bled, more  than  did  Madame  de  Vallorbes. 

For  all  such  sexless  creatures,  for  the  great  company  of 
women  in  whose  outlook  man  plays  no  immediate  or  active 
part,  Helen  had,  in  truth,  small  respect.  They  appeared  to 
her  so  absurdly  inadequate,  so  contemptibly  divorced  from  the 
primary  interests  of  existence.  More  than  once,  in  a  spirit  of 
mischievous  malice,  she  was  tempted  to  bid  the  good  ladies  lay 
aside  their  Baedekers  and  Murrays,  and  increase  their  knowl- 
edge of  the  Italian  character  and  language  by  study  of  the 
Novelle  of  Bandello,  or  of  certain  merry  tales  to  be  found  in 
the  pages  of  the  Decameron,  She  had  copies  of  both  works 
in  her  traveling-bag.  She  was  prepared,  moreover,  to  illus- 
trate such  ancient  saws  by  modern  instances,  for  the  truth  of 
which  last  she  could  quite  honestly  vouch.  But  on  second 
thoughts  she  spared  her  victims.  The  quarry  was  not  worth 
the  chase.  What  self-respecting  panther  can,  after  all,  go  a- 
hunting  in  a  hen-roost  ?  So  from  the  neighbourhood  of  their 
unlovely  clothes,  questioning  glances,  and  under-vitalised  pur- 
suit of  art  and  literature,  she  removed  herself  to  her  sitting- 
room  up-stairs.  Charles  should  serve  her  meals  there  in  future, 
for  to  sit  at  table  with  these  neuters,  clothed  in  amorphous 
garments,  came  near  upsetting  her  digestion. 

Meanwhile,  as  she  watched  the  rain  streaming  down  the 
panes  of  the  big  windows,  watched  thin-legged,  heavily-cloaked 


RAKE'S  PROGRESS  425 

figures  tacking,  wind-buffeted,  across  the  gray-black  street  into 
the  shelter  of  some  cavernous  port  cochere^  it  must  be  owned 
her  spirits  went  very  sensibly  down  into  her  boots.  Even  the 
presence  of  the  despised  and  repudiated  Destournelle  would 
have  been  grateful  to  her.  Remembrance  of  all  the  less  suc- 
cessful episodes  of  her  career  assaulted  her.  And  in  that  con- 
nection, of  necessity,  the  thought  of  Brockhurst  returned  upon 
her.  For  neither  the  affair  of  her  childhood — that  of  the  little 
dancer  with  blush-roses  in  her  hat — or  the  other  affair — of  now 
nearly  four  years  back — the  intimate  drama  frustrated,  within 
sight  of  its  climax,  by  intervention  of  Lady  Calmady — could 
be  counted  otherwise  than  as  failures.  It  was  strange  hov/ 
deep-seated  was  her  discontent  under  this  head.  As  on  Queen 
Mary's  heart  the  word  Calais,  so  on  hers  Brockhurst,  she 
sometimes  thought,  might  be  found  written  when  she  was  dead. 
In  the  last  four  years  Richard  had  given  her  princely  gifts. 
He  had  treated  her  with  a  fine,  old-world  chivalry,  as  some- 
thing sacred  and  apart.  But  he  rarely  sought  her  society.  He 
seemed,  rather  carefully,  to  elude  her  pursuit.  His  name  was 
not  exactly  a  patent  of  discretion  and  rectitude  in  these  days, 
unfortunately.  Still  Helen  found  his  care  of  her  reputation — 
as  far  as  association  of  her  name  with  his  went — somewhat 
exaggerated.     She  could  hardly  believe  him  to  be  indifferent  to 

her,  and  yet Oh  !  the  whole  matter  was  unsatisfactory, 

abominably  unsatisfactory — of  a  piece  with  the  disquieting 
influences  of  this  grim  and  fateful  city,  with  the  detestable 
weather  evident  there  without ! 

And  then,  suddenly,  an  idea  came  to  Helen  de  Vallorbes, 
causing  the  delicate  colour  to  spring  into  her  cheeks,  and  the 
light  into  her  eyes,  veiled  by  those  fringed,  semitransparent  lids. 
For,  some  two  years  earlier,  Richard  Calmady  had  taken  her 
husband's  villa  at  Naples  on  lease,  it  offering,  as  he  said,  a 
convenient  pied  a  terre  to  him  while  yachting  along  the  adjacent 
coasts,  up  the  Black  Sea  to  Odessa,  and  eastward  as  far  as 
Aden,  and  the  Persian  Gulf.  The  house,  save  for  the  actual 
fabric  of  it,  had  become  rather  dilapidated  and  ruinate.  To 
de  Vallorbes  it  appeared  clearly  advantageous  to  get  the 
property  off  his  hands,  and  touch  a  considerable  yearly  sum, 
rather  than  have  his  pocket  drained  by  outgoings  on  a  place  in 
which  he  no  longer  cared  to  live.  So  the  Villa  Vallorbes  passed 
for  the  time  being  into    Richard   Calmady's  possession.     It 


426  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

pleased  his  fancy.  Helen  heard  he  had  restored  and  refurnished 
it  at  great  expenditure  of  money  and  of  taste. 

These  facts  she  recalled.  And,  recalling  them,  found  both 
the  actuality  of  rain-blurred,  wind-scourged  town  without,  and 
anger-begetting  memories  of  Brockhurst  within,  fade  before  a 
seductive  vision  of  sun-bathed  Naples  and  of  that  nobly  placed 
and  painted  villa,  in  which — as  it  seemed  to  her — was  just  now 
resident  promise  of  high  entertainment,  the  objective  delight  of 
abnormal  circumstance,  the  subjective  delight  of  long-cherished 
revenge.  All  the  rapture  of  her  existing  freedom  came  back 
on  her,  while  her  brain,  fertile  in  forecast  of  adventure, 
pi-QJected  scenes  and  situations  not  unworthy  of  the  pen  of 
Boccaccio  himself.  Fired  by  such  thoughts,  she  moved  from 
the  window,  stood  before  a  tall  glass  at  right  angles  to  it  and 
contemplated  her  own  fair  reflection  long  and  intimately.  An 
absorbing  interest  in  the  general  effect,  and  in  the  details,  of 
her  person  possessed  her.  She  moved  to  and  fro  observing 
the  grace  of  her  carriage,  the  set  of  her  hips,  the  slenderness  of 
her  waist.  She  unfastened  her  soft,  trailing  tea-gown, 
throwing  the  loose  bodice  of  it  back,  critically  examining  her 
bare  neck,  the  swell  of  her  beautiful  bosom,  the  firm  contours 
of  her  arms  from  shoulder  to  elbow.  Her  skin  was  of  a  clear, 
golden  whiteness,  smooth,  fine  in  texture,  as  that  of  a  child. 
Placing  her  hands  on  the  gilded  frame  of  the  mirror,  high  up 
on  either  side,  she  observed  her  face,  exquisitely  healthful  in 
colour,  even  as  seen  in  this  mournful,  afternoon  light.  She 
leaned  forward,  gazing  intently  into  her  own  eyes — meeting  in 
them,  as  Narcissus  in  the  surface  of  the  fatal  pool,  the  radiant 
image  of  herself.  And  this  filled  her  with  a  certain  intoxica- 
tion, a  voluptuous  self-love,  a  profound  persuasion  of  the  power 
and  completeness  of  her  own  beauty.  She  caressed  her  own 
neck,  her  own  lips,  with  lingering  finger-tips.  She  bent  her 
bright  head  and  kissed  the  swell  of  her  cuplike  breasts.  Never 
had  she  received  so  entire  assurance  of  the  magic  of  her  own 
personality. 

'^  It  is  all — all,  as  perfect  as  ever,"  she  exclaimed  exultantly. 
"  And  while  it  remains  perfect,  it  should  be  made  use  of.'* 

Helen  waved  her  hand,  smiling,  to  the  smiling  image  in  the 
mirror. 

"  You  and  I  together — your  beauty  and  my  brains — I  pit 
the  pair  of  us  against  all  mankind  !     Together  we  have  worked 


RAKE'S  PROGRESS  427 

pretty  little  miracles  before  now,  causing  the  proud  to  lay  aside 
their  pride  and  the  godly  their  virtue.  A  man  of  strange 
passions  shall  hardly  escape  us — nor  shall  the  mother  that  bare 
him  escape  either." 

Her  face  hardened,  her  laughing  eyes  paled  to  the  colour 
of  fine  steel.  She  lifted  the  soft-curling  hair  from  ofF  her 
right  temple  disclosing  a  small,  crescent-shaped  scar. 

"  That  is  the  one  blemish,  and  we  will  exact  the  price  of  it 
— you  and  I — to  the  ultimate  sou.'''' 

Then  she  moved  away,  overcome  by  sudden  amusement  at 
her  own  attitude,  which  she  perceived  risked  being  slightly 
comic.  Heroics  were,  to  her  thinking,  unsuitable  articles  for 
home  consumption.  Yet  her  purpose  held  none  the  less 
strongly  and  steadily  because  excitement  lessened.  She  re« 
fastened  her  tea  gown,  tied  the  streaming  azure  ribbons  of  it, 
patted  bows  and  laces  into  place,  walked  the  length  of  the 
room  a  time  or  two  to  recover  her  composure,  then  rang  the 
bell.  And,  on  the  arrival  of  Charles, — irreproachably  correct 
in  dress  and  demeanour,  his  clean-shaven,  sharp-featured, 
rakish  countenance  controlled  to  praiseworthy  nullity  of  ex- 
pression, she  said  : — 

"  The  weather  is  abominable." 

The  man-servant  set  down  the  tray  on  a  little  table  before 
her,  turned  out  the  corners  of  the  napkin,  deftly  arranged  the 
tea-things. 

"  It  is  a  little  dull,  my  lady." 

"  How  is  the  glass  ?  " 

"  Falling  steadily,  my  lady." 

*'I  cannot  remain  here." 

"No,  my  lady?" 

"  Find  out  about  the  trains  south — to  Naples." 

"Yes,  my  lady.  We  can  join  the  Roman  express  at  Chiusi. 
When  does  your  ladyship  wish  to  start  ?  " 

"  I  must  telegraph  first." 

"  Certainly,  my  lady." 

Charles  produced  telegraph  forms.  It  was  Helen's  boast 
that,  upon  request,  the  man  could  produce  any  known  object 
from  a  packet  of  pins  to  a  white  elephant,  or  fully  manned 
battleship.  She  had  a  lively  regard  for  her  servant's  ability. 
So  had  he,  it  may  be  added,  for  that  of  his  mistress.  The 
telegram  was  written  and  despatched.     But  the  reply  took  four 


428  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

days  in  reaching  Madame  de  Vallorbes,  and  during  those  days 
it  rained  incessantly.  The  said  reply  came  in  the  form  of  a 
letter.  Sir  Richard  Calmady  was  at  Constantinople,  so  the 
writer — Bates,  his  steward — had  reason  to  believe.  But  it  was 
probable  he  would  return  to  Naples  shortly.  Meanwhile  he — 
the  steward — had  permanent  orders  to  the  effect  that  the  villa 
was  at  Madame  de  Vallorbes'  disposition  should  she  at  any 
time  express  the  wish  to  visit  it.  She  would  find  everything 
prepared  for  her  reception.  This  information  caused  Helen 
singular  satisfaction.  It  was  very  charming,  very  courteous^ 
of  Richard  thus  to  remember  her.  She  set  forth  from  Perugia 
full  of  ingenious  purpose,  deliciously  light  of  heart. 

Thus  did  it  come  about  that,  on  the  afore-mentioned  gay^ 
spring  morning,  Madame  de  Vallorbes  breakfasted  beneath  the 
glistering  dome  of  the  airy  pavilion,  all  Naples  outstretched 
before  her,  while  the  blossoms  of  the  Judas-trees  fell  in  a 
red-mauve  shower  upon  the  slabs  of  the  marble  pavement,  and 
the  mimic  waves  of  the  fountain  basin,  and  upon  the  clustered 
curls  and  truncated  shoulders  of  the  bust  of  Homer  stationed 
within  the  soft  gloom  of  the  ilex  and  cypress  grove.  She  had 
arrived  the  previous  evening,  and  had  met  with  a  dignified  wel- 
come from  the  numerous  household.  Her  manner  was  gracious^ 
kindly,  captivating — she  intended  it  to  be  all  that.  She  slept 
well,  rose  in  buoyant  health  and  spirits,  partook  of  a  meal  of- 
fering example  of  the  most  finished  Italian  cooking.  Finish,  in 
any  department,  appealed  to  Helen's  artistic  sense.  Life  was 
sweet — moreover  it  was  supremely  interesting !  Her  break- 
fast ended,  rising  from  her  place  at  table,  she  looked  away  to 
the  purple  cone  of  the  great  volcano  and  the  uprising  of  the 
smoke  of  its  everlasting  burnings.  The  sight  of  this,  mag- 
nificent, menacing  evidence  of  the  anarchic  might  of  the 
powers  of  nature,  quickened  the  pagan  instinct  in  her.  She 
wanted  to  worship.  And  even  in  so  doing,  she  became  aware 
of  a  kindred  something  in  herself — of  an  answering  and 
anarchic  energy,  a  certain  menace  to  the  conventional  works 
and  ways,  and  fancied  security,  of  groping,  purblind  man* 
The  insolence  of  a  great  lady,  the  dangerously  primitive  in- 
stincts of  a  great  courtesan,  filled  her  with  an  enormous 
pride,  a  reckless  self-confidence. 

Turning,  she  glanced  back  across  the  formal  garden,  bright 
with  waxen  camellias   set  in  glossy  foliage,  with  early  roses^ 


RAKE'S  PROGRESS  429 

with  hyacinths,  lemon  and  orange  blossom,  towards  the  villa. 
Upon  the  black-and-white  marble  balustrade  a  man  leaned  his 
elbows.  She  could  see  his  broad  shoulders,  his  bare  head. 
From  his  height  she  took  him,  at  first,  to  be  kneeling,  as, 
motionless,  he  looked  towards  her  and  towards  the  splendid 
view.  Then  she  perceived  that  he  was  not  kneeling,  but 
standing  upright.  She  understood,  and  a  very  vital  sensation 
ran  right  through  her,  causing  the  queerest  turn  in  her 
blood. 

"  Mercy  of  heaven  !  "  she  said  to  herself,  "  is  it  conceiva- 
ble that  now,  at  this  time  of  day,  I  am  capable  of  the  egre* 
gious  folly  of  losing  my  head  ? " 


CHAPTER  II 

WHEREIN    TIME    IS     DISCOVERED     TO    HAVE    WORKED    CHANGES 

pTELEN,  however,  did  not  stay  to  debate  as  to  the  state  of 
her  affections.  She  had  had  more  than  enough  of  re- 
flection of  late.  Now  action  invited  her.  She  responded. 
The  sweep  of  her  turquoise-blue  cloth  skirts  sent  the  fallen 
Judas-blossoms  dancing,  to  left  and  right,  in  crazy  whirling  com- 
panies. She  did  not  wait  even  to  put  on  her  broad-brimmed, 
garden  hat, — the  crown  of  it  encircled,  as  luck  would  have  it, 
by  a  garland  of  pale,  pink  tulle  and  pale,  pink  roses, — but 
braved  the  sunshine  with  no  stouter  head-covering  than  the 
coils  of  her  honey-coloured  hair.  Rapidly  she  passed  up  the 
central  alley  between  the  double  row  of  glossy  leaved  camellia 
bushes,  laughter  in  her  downcast  eyes  and  a  delicious  thrill  of 
excitement  at  her  heart.  She  felt  strong  and  light,  her  being 
vibrant,  penetrated  and  sustained  throughout  by  the  bracing 
air,  the  sparkling,  crystal-clear  atmosphere.  Yet  for  all  her 
eagerness  Helen  remained  an  artist.  She  would  not  forestall 
effects.  Thriftily  she  husbanded  sensations.  Thus,  reaching 
the  base  of  the  black-and-white  marble  wall  supporting  the 
terrace,  where,  midway  in  its  long  length,  it  was  broken  by  an 
arched  grotto  of  rough-hewn  stonework,  in  which  maiden-hair 
fern  rooted, — the  delicate  fronds  of  it  caressing  the  shoulders 
of  an  undraped  nymph,  with  ever-dripping  water-pitcher  upon 


430  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

her  rounded  hip, — Helen  turned  sharp  to  the  left,  and  arrived 
at  the  bottom  of  the  descending  flight  of  steps  without  once 
looking  up.  That  Richard  Calmady  still  leaned  on  the  balus- 
trade some  twelve  to  fourteen  feet  above  that  same  cool,  green 
grotto  she  knew  well  enough.  But  she  did  not  choose  to  an- 
ticipate either  sight  or  greeting  of  him.  Both  should  come  to 
her  as  a  whole.  She  would  receive  a  single  and  unqualified 
impression. 

So,  silently,  without  apparent  haste,  she  passed  up  the  flight 
of  shallow  steps  on  to  the  edge  of  the  wide  black-and-white 
chequer-board  platform.  It  was  sun-bathed,  suspended,  as  it 
seemed,  between  that  glorious  prospect  of  city,  mountain,  sea, 
and  the  unsullied  purity  of  the  southern  heavens.  It  was 
vacant,  save  for  the  solitary  figure  and  the  sharp-edged,  yet 
amorphous,  shadow  cast  by  that  same  figure.  For  the  young 
man  had  moved  as  she  came  up  from  the  garden  below.  He 
stood  clear  of  the  balustrade,  only  the  fingers  of  his  left  hand 
resting  upon  the  handrail  of  it.  Seeing  him  thus  the  strange- 
ness, the  grotesque  incompleteness,  of  his  person  struck  her 
as  never  before.  But  this,  though  it  did  not  move  her  to 
mirth  as  in  her  childhood,  moved  her  to  pity  no  more  now 
than  it  then  had.  That  which  it  did  was  to  deepen,  to  stimu- 
late, her  excitement,  to  provoke  and  to  satisfy  the  instinct  of 
cruelty  latent  in  every  pagan  nature  such  as  hers.  Could 
Helen  have  chosen  the  moment  of  her  birth  she  would  have 
been  a  great  lady  of  Imperial  Rome,  holding  power  of  life 
and  death  over  her  slaves,  and  the  mutes  and  eunuchs  with 
which  the  East  should  have  furnished  her  palace  in  the  eternal 
city,  and  her  dainty  villa  away  there  on  the  purple  flanks  of 
Vesuvius  at  Herculaneum  or  Pompeii.  The  delight  of  her 
own  loveliness,  of  her  own  triumphant  health  and  activity, 
would  have  been  increased  tenfold  by  the  sight  of,  by  power 
over,  such  stultified  and  hopelessly  disfranchised  human  crea- 
tures. And  the  first  sight  of  Richard  Calmady  now,  though 
she  did  not  stop  very  certainly  to  analyse  the  exact  how  and 
why  of  her  increasing  satisfaction,  took  its  root  in  this  same 
craving  for  ascendency  by  means  of  the  suffering  and  loss  of 
others.  While,  unconsciously,  the  fine  flavour  of  her  satis- 
faction was  heightened  by  the  fact  that  the  victim,  now  before 
her,  was  her  equal  in  birth,  her  superior  in  wealth,  in  intelli- 
gence and  worldly  station. 


RAKE'S  PROGRESS  431 

But  as  she  drew  nearer,  Richard  the  while  making  no  effort 
to  go  forward  and  receive  her,  buoyant  self-complacency  and 
self-congratulation  suffered  diminution.  For,  rehearsing  this 
same  meeting  during  those  rain-blotted  days  of  waiting  at 
Perugia,  imagination  had  presented  Dickie  as  the  inexperi- 
enced, tender-hearted,  sweet-natured  lad  she  had  known  and 
beguiled  at  Brockhurst  four  years  earlier.  As  has  already  been 
stated  her  meetings  with  him,  since  then,  had  been  brief  and 
infrequent.  Now  she  perceived  that  imagination  had  played  a 
silly  trick  upon  her.  The  boy  she  had  left,  the  man  who 
stood  awaiting  her  so  calmly  were,  save  in  one  distressing 
peculiarity,  two  widely  different  persons.  For  in  the  interval 
Richard  Calmady  had  eaten  very  freely  of  the  fruit  of  the 
Tree  of  the  Knowledge  of  Good  and  Evil,  and  that  diet  had 
left  its  mark  not  only  on  his  character,  but  on  his  appearance. 
He  had  matured  notably,  all  trace  of  ingenuous,  boyish  charm 
having  vanished.  His  skin,  though  darkened  by  recent  sea- 
faring, was  colourless.  His  features  were  at  once  finer  and 
more  pronounced  than  of  old — the  bone  of  the  face  giving  it 
a  noticeable  rigidity  of  outline,  index  at  once  of  indomitable 
will  and  irreproachable  breeding.  The  powerful  jaw  and 
strong  muscular  neck  might  have  argued  a  measure  of  brutal- 
ity. But  happily  the  young  man's  mouth  had  not  coarsened. 
His  lips  were  compressed,  relaxing  rarely  into  the  curves 
which,  as  a  lad,  had  rendered  his  smile  so  peculiarly  engaging. 
Still  there  was  no  trace  of  grossness  in  their  form  or  expres- 
sion. Hard  living  had,  indeed,  in  Richard's  case,  been  matter 
of  research  rather  than  of  appetite.  The  intellectual  part  of 
him  had  never  fallen  wholly  into  bondage  to  the  animal.  He 
explored  the  borders  of  the  Forbidden  hoping  to  find  some 
anodyne  with  which  to  assuage  the  ache  of  a  vital  discontent, 
rather  than  by  any  compulsion  of  natural  lewdness. 

Much  of  this  quick-witted  Helen  quickly  apprehended. 
He  was  cleverer,  more  serious,  and  mentally  more  distin- 
guished, than  she  had  supposed  him.  And  this,  while  open- 
ing up  new  sources  of  interest  and  pricking  her  ambition  of 
conquest,  disclosed  unforeseen  difficulties  in  the  way  of  such 
conquest.  Moreover,  she  was  slightly  staggered  by  the 
strength  and  inscrutability  of  his  countenance,  the  repose  of 
his  bearing  and  manner.  His  eyes  affected  her  oddly.  They 
were  cold  and  clear  as  some  frosty,  winter's  night,  the  pupils 


432    .  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

of  them  very  small.  They  seemed  to  see  all  things,  yet  tell 
nothing.  They  were  as  windows  opening  onto  an  endless 
perspective  of  empty  space.  They  at  once  challenged  curios- 
ity and  baffled  inquiry.  Helen's  excitement  deepened,  and 
she  was  sensible  it  needed  all  the  subjective  support,  all  the 
indirect  flattery,  with  which  the  fact  of  his  deformity  supplied 
her  self-love  to  prevent  her  standing  in  awe  of  him.  As  con- 
sequence her  address  was  impulsive  rather  than  studied. 

"  Richard,  I  have  had  a  detestable  winter,"  she  said.  "  It 
wore  upon  me.  It  demoralised  me.  I  was  growing  dull, 
superstitious  even.  I  wanted  to  get  away,  to  put  a  long  dis- 
tance between  myself  and  certain  experiences,  certain  mem- 
ories. I  wanted  to  hear  another  language.  You  have  always 
been  sympathetic  to  me.  It  was  natural,  if  a  little  unconven- 
tional, to  take  refuge  with  you." 

Madame  de  Vallorbes  spoke  with  an  unaccustomed  and  very 
seductive  air  of  apology,  her  face  slightly  flushed,  her  arms 
hanging  straight  at  her  sides,  the  long,  pink,  tulle  strings  of 
the  hat  she  carried  in  her  left  hand  trailing  upon  the  black- 
and-white  squares  of  the  pavement. 

"  To  do  so  seemed  obvious  in  contemplation.  I  did  not 
stop  to  consider  possible  objections.  But,  in  execution,  the 
objections  become  hourly  more  glaringly  apparent.  I  want 
you  to  reassure  me.  Tell  me  I  have  not  dared  too  greatly  in 
comino;  thus  uninvited  ?  " 

"  Of  course  not,"  he  answered.  '^  I  hope  you  found  the 
house  comfortable  and  everything  prepared  for  you.  The 
servants  had  their  orders." 

"  I  know,  I  know.  That  you  should  have  provided  against 
the  possibility  of  my  coming  some  day  moved  me  a  little  more 
than  I  care  to  tell  you." — Helen  paused,  looking  upon  him, 
and  that  look  had  in  it  a  delicate  affinity  to  a  caress.  But  the 
young  man's  manner,  though  faultlessly  courteous,  was  lack- 
ing in  any  hint  of  enthusiasm.  Helen  could  have  imagined, 
and  that  angered  her,  something  of  irony  in  his  tone. 

"  Oh,  there's  no  matter  for  thanks,"  he  said.  "  The  house 
was  yours,  will  be  yours  again.  The  least  I  can  do,  since 
you  and  de  Vallorbes  are  good  enough  to  let  me  live  in  it 
meanwhile,  is  to  beg  you  to  make  any  use  you  please  of  it. 
Indeed  it  is  I,  rather  than  you,  v/ho  come  uninvited  just  now. 
I  had  not  intended  being  back  here  for  another  month.     But 


RAKE'S  PROGRESS  433 

there  was  a  case  of  something  suspiciously  like  cholera  on 
board  my  yacht  at  Constantinople,  and  it  seemed  wisest  to  get 
away  to  sea  as  soon  as  possible.  One  of  the  firemen — oh, 
he's  all  right  now  !  Still  I  shall  send  him  home  to  England. 
He's  a  married  man — the  only  one  I  have  on  board.  A  use- 
ful fellow,  but  he  must  go.  I  don't  choose  to  take  the  re- 
sponsibility of  creating  the  widow  and  the  fatherless  whenever 
one  of  my  crew  chances  to  fall  sick  and  depart  into  the  un- 
known." 

Richard  talked  on,  very  evidently  for  the  mere  sake  of  pass- 
ing the  time.  And  all  the  while  those  eyes,  which  told  noth- 
ing, dwelt  quietly  upon  Helen  de  Vallorbes  until  she  became 
nervously  impatient  of  their  scrutiny.  For  it  was  not  at  all 
thus  that  she  had  pictured  and  rehearsed  this  meeting  during 
those  days  of  waiting  at  Perugia  ! 

"We  got  in  last  night,"  he  continued.  "But  I  slept  on 
board.  I  heard  you  had  just  arrived,  and  I  did  not  care  to  run 
the  risk  of  disturbing  you  after  your  journey." 

"  You  are  very  considerate,"  Helen  remarked. 

She  was  surprised  out  of  all  readiness  of  speech.  This 
new  Richard  impressed  her,  but  she  resented  his  manner.  He 
took  her  so  very  much  for  granted.  Admiration  and  homage 
were  to  her  as  her  daily  bread,  and  that  any  man  should  fail  to 
offer  them  caused  her  frank  amazement.  It  did  more.  It 
raised  in  her  a  longing  to  inflict  pain.  He  might  not  admire^ 
but  at  least  he  should  not  remain  indifferent.  Therefore  she 
backed  a  couple  of  steps,  so  as  to  get  a  good  view  of  Richard 
Calmady.  And,  without  any  disguise  of  her  purpose,  took  a 
comprehensive  and  leisurely  survey  of  his  dwarfed  and  muti- 
lated figure.  While  so  doing  she  pinned  on  her  rose-trimmed 
hat,  and  twisted  the  long,  tulle  strings  of  it  about  her  throat. 

"  You  have  altered  a  good  deal,  Richard,"  she  said  reflect- 
ively. 

"  Probably,"  he  answered.  "  I  had  a  good  deal  to  learn, 
being  a  very  thin-skinned  young  simpleton.  In  part,  any- 
how, I  have  learned  it.  And  I  do  my  best  practically  to 
apply  my  knowledge.  But  if  I  have  altered,  so,  happily,  have 
not  you." 

"  I  remain  a  simpleton  ?  "  she  inquired,  her  irritation  find- 
ing voice. 

"  You  cannot  very  well  remain  that  which  you  never  have 


434  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY^- 

been.  What  you  do  remain  is — if  I  may  say  so — victoriously 
yourself,  unspoiled,  unmodified  by  contact  with  that  singularly 
stupid  invention,  society,  true  to  my  earliest  recollections  of 

you   even "     Richard  shuffled  closer  to  the   balustrade, 

threw  his  left  arm  across  it,  grasping  the  outer  edge  of  the 
broad  coping, — "  even  in  small  details  of  dress." 

He  looked  away  over  the  immense  and  radiant  prospect, 
and  then  up  at  the  radiant  woman  in  her  vesture  of  turquoise, 
pink,  and  gold. 

And,  so  doing,  for  the  first  time  his  face  relaxed,  being 
lighted  up  by  a  flickering,  mocking  smile.  And  something  in 
his  shuffling  movements,  in  the  fine  irony  of  his  expression, 
pierced  Helen  with  a  sensation  hitherto  unknown,  broke  up 
the  absoluteness  of  her  egotism,  stirred  her  blood.  She  forgot 
resentment  in  an  absorbed  and  absorbing  interest.  The  ordi- 
nary man  of  the  world  she  knew  as  thoroughly  as  her  old 
shoe.  Such  an  one  presented  small  field  of  discovery  to  her. 
But  this  man  was  unique  in  person,  and  promised  to  be  so  in 
character  also.  Her  curiosity  regarding  him  was  profound. 
For  the  moment  it  sunk  all  personal  considerations,  all  humor- 
ous or  angry  criticism,  either  of  her  own  attitude  towards  him 
or  of  his  attitude  towards  her.  Silently  she  came  forward,  sat 
down  on  the  marble  bench,  close  to  where  he  stood,  and,  turn- 
ing sideways,  leaned  her  elbows  upon  the  top  of  the  balustrade 
beside  him.  She  looked  up  now,  rather  than  down  at  him, 
and  it  went  home  to  her,  had  nature  spared  him  infliction  of 
that  hideous  deformity,  what  a  superb  creature  physically  he 
would  have  been  !  There  was  a  silence,  Helen  remaining 
intent,  quiet,  apprehension  and  imagination  sensibly  upon  the 
stretch. 

At  last  Richard  spoke  abruptly. 

"  By  the  way,  did  you  happen  to  observe  the  decorations  of 
your  room  ?      Do  you  like  them  ?  " 

"  Yes  and  no,"  she  answered.  "  They  struck  me  as  rather 
wonderful,  but  liable  to  induce  dreams  of  Scylla  and  Charyb- 
dis,  of  the  Fata  Morgana,  and  other  inconvenient  accidents  of 
the  deep.  Fortunately  I  was  too  tired  last  night  to  be  ex- 
cursive in  fancy,  or  I  might  have  slept  badly.  You  have 
gathered  all  the  colours  of  the  ocean  and  fixed  them,  some- 
how, on  those  carpets  and  hangings  and  strangely  frescoed 
walls." 


.  '     RAKE'S  PROGRESS  435 

"You  saw  that?  " 

"  How  could  I  fail  to  see  it,  since  you  kindly  excuse  me  of 
being,  or  ever  having  been,  a  simpleton  ?  " — Helen  spoke 
lightly,  tenderly  almost.  An  overmastering  desire  to  please* 
had  overtaken  her.  "  You  have  employed  a  certain  wizardry 
in  the  furnishing  of  that  room,"  she  continued.  ''  It  lays 
subtle  influences  upon  one.     What  made  you  think  of  it  ?  " 

"  A  dream,  an  idea,  which  has  stuck  by  me  queerly,  though 
all  other  fond  things  of  the  sort  were  pitched  overboard  long 
ago.  I  suppose  one  is  bound  to  be  illogical  on  one  point,  if 
only  to  prove  to  oneself  the  absolutism  of  one's  logic  on  all 
others.  Thus  do  I,  otherwise  sane  and  consistent  realist, 
materialist,  pessimist,  cling  to  my  one  dream  and  ideal — take 
it  out,  dandle  it,  nourish  and  cherish  it,  with  weakly  senti- 
mental faithfulness.  To  do  so  is  ludicrous.  But  tfien  my 
being  here  at  all,  calmly  considered,  is  ludicrous.  And  it, 
too,  is  among  the  results  of  the  one  idea." 

He  paused,  and  Helen,  leaning  beside  him,  waited.  The 
sunshine  covered  them  both.  The  sea  wind  was  fresh  in 
their  faces.  While  the  many  voices  of  Naples  came  up  to 
them  confused,  strident,  continuous,  with  sometimes  a  bugle- 
call,  sometimes  a  clang  of  hammers,  or  quick  pulse  of  stringed 
instruments,  or  jangle  of  church-bells,  or  long-drawn  bellow 
of  a  steamship  clearing  for  sea,  detaching  itself  from  the  uni- 
versal chorus.  Capri,  Ischia,  Procida,  floated,  islands  of 
amethyst,  upon  the  sapphire  of  the  bay,  and  the  smoke  of 
Vesuvius  rolled  ceaselessly  upward. 

"You  see  and  hear  and  feel  all  this,"  Richard  continued 
presently.  "  Well,  when  I  saw  it  for  the  first  time  I  was 
pretty  thoroughly  out  of  conceit  with  myself  and  all  creation. 
I  had  been  experimenting  freely  in  things  not  usually  talked 
of  in  polite  society.  And  I  was  abominably  sold,  for  I  found 
the  enjoyment  such  things  procure  is  decidedly  overrated. 
Unmentionable  matters,  once  fully  explored,  are  just  as  tedious 
and  inadequate  as  those  which  supply  the  most  unexceptiona- 
ble subjects  of  conversation.  Moreover,  in  the  process  of 
exploration  I  had  touched  a  good  deal  of  pitch,  and,  the 
simpleton  being  still  superfluously  to  the  fore  in  me,  I  was 
squeamishly  sensible  of  defilement." 

The  young  man  shifted  his  position  slightly,  resting  his 
chin  in  the  hollow  of  his  hands^  speaking  quietly  and  indifFcr-» 


436  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

ently,  as  of  some  matter  foreign  to  himself  and  his  personal 
interests. 

"  I  have  reason  to  believe  I  was  as  fairly  and  squarely 
ivretched  as  it  is  possible  for  an  intelligent  being  to  be.  I  had 
convinced  myself,  experimentally,  that  human  existence, 
human  nature,  was  a  bottomless  pit  and  an  uncommonly 
filthy  one  at  that.  Reaction  was  inevitable.  Then  I  under- 
stood why  men  have  invented  gods,  subscribed  to  irrational 
systems  of  theology,  hailed  and  accredited  transparently  ridicu- 
lous miracles.  Such  lies  are  necessary  to  certain  stages  of 
development  simply  for  the  preservation  of  sanity,  just  as,  at 
another  stage,  sanity,  for  its  own  preservation,  is  necessarily 
driven  to  declare  their  falsehood.  And  so  I,  after  the  manner 
of  my  kind,  was  driven  to  take  refuge  in  a  dream.  The  sub- 
jective, in  some  form  or  other,  alone  makes  life  continuously 
possible.  And  all  this,  we  now  look  at,  determined  the 
special  nature  of  my  attempt  at  subjective  support  and  conso- 
lation." 

Richard  paused  again,  contemplating  the  view. 

"  All  this — its  splendour,  its  diversity,  its  caprices  and 
seductions,  its  suggestion  of  underlying  danger — presented 
itself  to  me  as  the  embodiment  of  a  personality  that  has  had 
remarkable  influence  in  the  shaping  of  my  life." 

So  far  Helen  had  listened  intently  and  silently.  Now  she 
moved  a  little,  straightening  up  her  charming  figure,  pulling 
down  the  wide  brim  of  her  hat  to  shelter  her  eyes  from  the 
heat  and  brightness  of  the  sun. 

"  A  woman  ?  "  she  asked  briefly. 

Richard  turned  to  her,  that  same  flickering  of  mockery  in 
his  still  face. 

"Oh!  you  mustn't  require  too  much  of  me!"  he  said. 
"  Remember  the  simpleton  was  not  wholly  eradicated  then. — 
Yes,  very  much  a  woman.  Of  course.  How  should  it  be 
otherwise  ?  It  gave  me  great  pleasure  to  look  at  that  which 
looked  like  her.  It  gives  me  pleasure  even  yet.  So  I  wrote 
and  asked  de  Vallorbes  to  be  kind  enough  to  let  me  rent  the 
villa.  You  remember  it  was  not  particularly  well  cared  for. 
There  was  an  air  of  fallen  greatness  about  the  poor  place. 
Inside  it  was  something  of  a  barrack." 

"  I  remember,"  Helen  said. 

"  Well,  I  restored  and  refurnished  it — specially  the  rooms 


RAKE'S  PROGRESS  437 

you  now  occupy,  in  accordance  with  what  I  imagined  to  be  her 
taste.  The  whole  proceeding  was  not  a  little  feeble-minded, 
since  the  probability  of  her  ever  inhabiting  those  rooms  was 
more  than  remote.  But  it  amused,  it  pacified  me,  as  prayer 
to  their  self-invented  deities  pacifies  the  devout.  I  never  stay 
here  for  long  together.  If  I  did  the  spell  might  be  broken.  I 
go  away,  I  travel.  I  even  experiment  in  things  not  usually 
spoken  of,  but  with  a  cooler  judgment  and  less  morbidly  sen- 
sitive conscience  than  of  old.  I  amuse  myself  after  more  active 
and  practical  fashions  in  other  places.  Here  I  amuse  myself 
only  with  my  idea." 

The  even  flow  of  his  speech  ceased. — "  What  do  you  think 
of  it,  Helen  ?  "  he  demanded,  almost  harshly. 

"  I  think  it  can't  last.     It  is  too  intangible,  too  fantastic." 

"  I  admit  that  to  keep  it  intact  needs  an  infinity  of  precau- 
tions. For  instance,  I  can  make  no  near  acquaintance  with 
Naples.  I  cannot  permit  myself  to  see  the  town  at  close 
quarters.  I  only  look  at  it  from  here.  If  I  want  to  go  to  or 
from  the  yacht,  I  do  so  at  night  and  in  a  closed  carriage.  I 
took  on  de  Vallorbes'  box  at  the  San  Carlo.  If  any  good  opera 
is  given  I  go  and  hear  it.  Otherwise  I  remain  exclusively  in 
the  house  and  garden.  I  am  not  acquainted  with  a  single  soul 
in  the  place." 

"  And  the  woman,"  Helen  exclaimed,  a  singular  emotion  at 
once  of  envy  and  protest  upon  her.  "Do  you  treat  her  with 
the  same  cold-blooded  calculation  ?  " 

"  Of  the  woman  I  know  just  as  much  and  just  as  little  as  I 
know  of  Naples.  It  is  conceivable  there  may  be  unlovely 
elements  in  her  character,  as  well  as  unlovely  quarters  of  this 
beautiful  city.  I  have  avoided  knowledge  of  both.  You  see 
the  whole  arrangement  is  designed  not  for  her  benefit,  but  for 
my  own.  It's  an  elaborate  piece  of  self-seeking  on  my  part, 
but,  so  far,  it  has  really  worked  rather  successfully." 

"  It  is  preposterous.  It  cannot  in  the  nature  of  things  con- 
tinue successful,"  Helen  declared. 

"  I  am  not  so  sure  of  that,"  he  replied  calmly.  "  Even  the 
most  preposterous  of  religious  systems  proves  to  have  a  remark- 
able power  of  survival  Why  not  this  one  ?  In  any  case, 
neither  the  success  nor  the  failure  depends  on  me.  I  shall  be 
true,  on  my  part.     The  rest  depends  on  her." 

As  Richard  spoke  he  turned,  leaning  his  back  against  the 


438  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

balustrade,  his  face  away  from  the  sunlight  and  the  wide  view. 
Again  the  extent  of  his  deformity  became  arrestingly  apparent 
to  Madame  de  Vallorbes. 

"  Has  this  woman  ever  been  here  ? "  she  asked. 

"Yes — she  has  been  here." 

"And  then  ?     And  then  ?  "  Helen  cried. 

The  young  man  looked  up  at  her,  his  face  keen  yet  im- 
passive, his  eyes — as  windows  opening  on  to  endless  per- 
spective of  empty  space — telling  nothing.  She  recognised^ 
once  again,  that  he  was  very  strong.  She  also  recognised  that^ 
notwithstanding  his  strength,  he  was  horribly  sad. 

"  Ah  !  then,"  he  said,  "  the  last  of  the  poor,  little,  subjective 
supports  and  consolations  seemed  in  danger  of  going  over- 
board and  joining  their  fellows  in  the  uneasy  deeps  of  the  sea. 
— But  the  history  of  that  will  keep  till  a  more  convenient 
season.  Cousin  Helen.  You  have  stood  in  the  midday  sun, 
and  I  have  talked  about  myself,  quite  long  enough.  However, 
it  was  only  fair  to  acquaint  you  with  the  limited  resources  in 
the  way  of  society  and  amusement  offered  by  your  present 
dwelling.  There  are  horses  and  carriages  of  course.  Give 
what  orders  you  please.  Only  remember  both  the  town  and 
the  surrounding  country  are  pretty  rough.  It  is  not  fit  for  a 
lady  to  drive  by  herself.  Always  take  your  own  man,  or  one 
of  mine,  with  you  if  you  go  out.  I  hope  you  won't  be  quite 
intolerably  bored.  Ask  for  whatever  you  want. — You  let  me 
dine  with  you  ?     Thanks." 


CHAPTER  III 

HELEN    DE  VALLORBES   APPREHENDS  VEXATIOUS  COMPLICATION? 


X^OUR  gowns  lay  outspread  upon  the  indigo-purple,  em- 
"■"  broidered  coverlet  of  the  bed.  The  afterglow  of  an 
orange  and  crimson  sunset  touched  the  folds  of  them,  ranged 
upward  to  the  vaultings  of  the  frescoed  ceiling,  and  stained 
the  lofty  walls  as  with  the  glare  of  a  furnace.  Sea-greens, 
sea-blues,  died  in  the  heat  of  it,  abashed  and  vanquished.  But 
so  did  not  Madame  de  Vallorbes'  white  lawn  and  lace  peignoir^ 
or  her  abundant  hair,  which  Zelie  Forestier — trim  of  figure, 


RAKE'S  PROGRESS  439 

and  sour  of  countenance — was  in  the  act  of  dressing.  These 
caught  th€  fiery  light  and  held  it,  so  that  from  head  to  foot 
Helen  appeared  as  an  image  of  living  gold.  Sitting  before 
the  toilet-table,  her  reflection  in  the  great,  oval  mirror  pleased 
her. 

"  Which  shall  I  wear  ?  " 

"  That  depends  upon  the  length  of  time  madame  proposes 
to  stay  here.  The  black  dress  might  be  worn  on  several 
occasions  with  impunity.  The  peacock  brocade,  the  eau  de 
Nil^  the  crocus  yelJow,  but  once — twice  at  the  uttermost. 
They  are  ravishing  costumes,  but  wanting  in  repose.  They 
are  unsuited  for  frequent  repetition." 

Zelie's  lean  fingers  twisted,  puffed,  pinned,  the  shining  hair 
very  skilfully. 

"  I  will  put  on  the  black  dress." 

"  Relieved  by  madame's  parure  of  pink  topaz  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  will  wear  the  pink  topazes." 

"  Then  it  will  be  necessary  to  modify  the  style  of  madame's 
coiffure,^^ 

"  There  is  plenty  of  time." 

Helen  took  a  hand-glass  from  the  table  and  leaned  forward 
in  the  low,  round-backed  chair — faithful  copy  of  a  fine  classic 
model.  She  wanted  to  see  the  full  glory  of  the  afterglow 
upon  her  profile,  upon  her  neck,  and  bosom.  Thus  might 
Cassiopeia,  glass  in  hand,  in  her  golden  chair  sit  in  high 
heaven  ! — Helen  smiled  at  the  pretty  conceit.  But  the  glory 
was  already  departing.  Sea-blues,  sea-greens,  sad  by  contrast, 
began  to  reassert  their  presence  on  walls  and  carpet  and  hang- 
ings." 

"  The  black  dress  ?  madame  decides  to  remain  then  ?  " 

As  she  spoke  the  lady's-maid  laid  out  the  jewels, — chains, 
bracelets,  brooches, — each  stone  set  in  a  rim  of  tiny  rose- 
knots  of  delicate  workmanship.  As  she  fingered  them  little, 
yellow-pink  flames  seemed  to  dance  in  their  many  facets. 
Then  the  afterglow  died  suddenly.  The  flames  ceased  to 
dance.  Helen's  white  garments  turned  livid,  her  neck  and 
bosom  gray — and  that,  somehow,  was  extremely  unpleasing  to 
Madame  de  Vallorbes. 

"  Light  the  candles,"  she  said,  almost  sharply.  "  Yes,  I 
remain.  Do  hurry,  Zelie.  It  is  impossible  to  see.  I  detest 
darkness.     Hurry.     Do  you  suppose  I  want  to  stay  here  all 


440  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

night  ?  And  look — you  must  bring  that  chain  further  forward. 
It  is  not  graceful.  Make  it  droop.  Let  it  follow  the  line  of 
my  hair  so  that  the  pendant  may  fall  there,  in  the  centre.  You 
have  it  too  much  to  the  right.  The  centre — the  centre — I  tell 
you.     There,  let  the  drop  just  clear  my  forehead." 

Thus  admonished  the  French  woman  wound  the  jewels  in 
her  mistress'  hair.  But  Madame  de  Vallorbes  remained  dis- 
satisfied. The  day  had  been  one  of  uncertainty,  of  conflict- 
ing emotions,  and  Helen's  love  of  unqualified  purposes  was 
great.  Confusion  in  others  was  highly  diverting.  But  in  her- 
self— no  thank  you  !  She  hated  it.  It  touched  her  self-con- 
fi<lence.  It  endangered  the  absoluteness  of  her  self-belief  and 
self-worship.  And  these  once  shaken,  small  superstitions 
assaulted  her.  In  trivial  happenings  she  detected  indication 
of  ill-luck.  Now  Zelie's  long,  narrow  face,  divided  into  two 
unequal  portions  by  a  straight  bar  of  black  eyebrow,  and  her 
lean  hands,  as  reflected  in  the  mirror,  awoke  unreasoning  dis- 
trust. They  appeared  to  be  detached  from  the  woman's  dark- 
clothed  person,  the  outlines  of  which  were  absorbed  in  the 
increasing  dimness  of  the  room.  The  sallow  face  moved, 
peered,  the  hands  clutched  and  hovered,  independent  and  un- 
related, about  Helen's  graceful  head. 

^'For  pity's  sake,  more  candles,  Zelie ! "  she  repeated. 
''  You  look  absolutely  diabolic  in  this  uncertain  light." 

"  In  an  instant,  madame.  I  am  compelled  first  to  fix  this 
curl  in  place." 

She  accomplished  the  operation  with  most  admired  delibera- 
tion, and  moved  away  more  than  once,  to  observe  the  effect, 
before  finally  adjusting  the  hairpin. 

"  I  cannot  but  regret  that  madame  is  unable  to  wear  her 
hair  turned  back  from  the  face.  Such  an  arrangement  confers 
height  and  an  air  of  spirituality,  which,  in  madame's  case, 
would  be  not  only  becoming  but  advantageous." 

Helen  skidded  the  hand-glass  down  upon  the  dressing-table, 
causing  confusion  amid  silver-topped  pots  and  bottles,  endan- 
gering a  jar  of  hyacinths,  upsetting  a  tray  of  hairpins. 

"  Have  I  not  repeatedly  given  you  orders  never  to  allude  to 
that  subject,"  she  cried. 

The  maid  was  on  her  knees  calmly  collecting  the  scattered 
contents  of  the  tray. 

"  A  thousand  pardons,  madame,"  she  said,  with  a  certain 


RAKE'S  PROGRESS  44I 

sour  impudence.  "  Still,  it  must  ever  be  a  matter  of  regret  to 
any  one  truly  appreciating  madame's  style  of  beauty,  that  she 
should  be  always  constrained  to  wear  her  hair  shading  her 
forehead.'' 

Modern  civilisation  imposes  restrictions  even  upon  the  most 
high-spirited.  At  that  moment  Madame  de  Vallorbes  was  ripe 
for  the  commission  of  atrocities.  Had  she  been — as  she 
coveted  to  be — a  lady  of  the  Roman  decadence  it  would  have 
gone  hard  with  her  waiting-woman,  who  might  have  found 
herself  ordered  for  instant  execution  or  summarily  deprived  of 
the  organs  of  speech.  But,  latter-day  sentiment  happily  for- 
bidding such  active  expressions  of  ill-feeling  on  the  part  of  the 
employer  towards  the  employed,  Helen  was  forced  to  swallow 
her  wrath,  reminding  herself,  meanwhile,  that  a  confidential 
servant  is  either  most  invaluable  of  friends  or  most  dangerous 
of  enemies.  There  is  no  via  media  in  the  relation.  And 
Zelie  as  an  enemy  was  not  to  be  thought  of.  She  could  not 
— displeasing  reflection — afford  to  quarrel  with  Zelie.  The 
woman  knew  too  much.  Therefore  Madame  de  Vallorbes 
took  refuge  in  lofty  abstraction,  while  the  tiresome  uncertain- 
ties, the  conflicting  inclinations  of  the  past  day,  quick  to  seize 
their  opportunity,  as  is  the  habit  of  such  discourteous  gentry, 
— returned  upon  her  with  redoubled  importunity  and  force. 

She  had  not  seen  Richard  since  parting  with  him  at  noon, 
the  enigmatic  suggestions  of  his  conversation  still  unresolved, 
the  alternate  resentment  at  his  apparent  indiff'erence  and  at- 
traction of  his  strong  and  somewhat  mysterious  personality 
still  vitally  present  to  her.  Later  she  had  driven  out  to  Poz- 
zuoli.  But  neither  stone-throwing  urchins,  foul  and  disease- 
stricken  beggars,  the  pale  sulphur  plains  and  subterranean 
rumblings  of  the  Solfaterra,  nor  stirring  of  nether  fires  therein 
resident  by  a  lanky,  wild-eyed  lad — clothed  in  leathern  jerkin 
and  hairy,  goatskin  leggings — with  the  help  of  a  birch  broom 
and  a  ^tw  local  newspapers,  served  eflfectually  to  rouse  her 
from  inward  debate  and  questioning.  The  comfortable,  cee- 
spring  carriage  might  swing  and  sway  over  the  rough,  deep- 
rutted  roads  behind  the  handsome,  black,  long-tailed  horses, 
the  melodramatic-looking  coachman  might  lash  stone-throwing 
urchins  and  anathematise  them,  their  ancestors  and  descend- 
ants, alike,  to  the  third  and  fourth  generation  in  the  vilest, 
Neapolitan  argot,  Charles  might  resort  to  physical  force  in  the 


44^  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

removal  of  wailing,  alms-demanding,  vermin-eaten  wrecks  of 
humanity,  but  still  Helen  asked  herself  only — should  she  go? 
Should  she  stay  ?  Was  the  game  worth  the  candle  ?  Was 
the  risk,  not  only  of  social  scandal,  but  of  possible  ^«««/,  worth 
the  projected  act  of  revenge  ?  And  worth  something  more 
than  that.  For  revenge,  it  must  be  owned,  already  took  a 
second  place  in  her  calculations.  Worth,  namely,  the  enjoy- 
ment of  possible  conquest,  the  humiliation  of  possible  defeat 
and  rejection,  by  that  strangely  coercive,  strangely  inscrutable, 
being,  her  cousin,  Dickie  Calmady  ? 

No  man  had  ever  impressed  her  thus.  And  she  returned 
on  her  thought,  when  first  seeing  him  upon  the  terrace  that 
morning,  that  she  might  lose  her  head.  Helen  laughed  a  little 
bitterly.  She,  of  all  women,  to  lose  her  head,  to  long  and 
languish,  to  entreat  affection,  and  to  be  faithful — heaven  help 
us,  faithful ! — could  it  ever  come  to  that  ? — like  any  senti- 
mental schoolgirl,  like — and  the  thought  turned  her  not  a  little 
wicked — like  Katherine  Calmady  herself!  And  then,  that 
other  woman  of  whom  Richard  had  told  her,  with  a  cynical 
disregard  of  her  own  claims  to  admiration,  who  on  earth  could 
she  be  ?  She  reviewed  those  ladies  with  whom  gossip  had 
coupled  Richard's  name.  Morabita,  the  famous  prima  donna^ 
for  instance.  But  surely,  it  was  inconceivable  that  mountain 
of  fat  and  good  nature,  with  the  voice  of  a  seraph,  granted, 
but  also  with  the  intellect  of  a  frog,  could  ever  inspire  so  fan- 
tastic and  sublimated  a  passion  !  And  passing  from  these  less 
legitimate  affairs  of  the  heart — in  which  rumour  accredited 
Richard  with  being  very  much  of  a  pluralist — her  mind  trav- 
eled back  to  the  young  man's  projected  marriage  with  Lady 
Constance  Decies,  sometime  Lady  Constance  Quayle.  Re- 
membering the  slow,  sweet,  baby-face  and  gentle,  heifer's  eyes, 
as  she  had  seen  them  that  day  at  luncheon  at  Brockhurst, 
nearly  five  years  ago,  she  again  laughed. — No,  very  certainly 
there  was  no  affinity  between  the  glorious  and  naughty  city 
of  Naples  and  that  mild-natured,  well-drilled,  little,  English 
girl !  Who  was  it  then — who  ?  But,  whoever  the  fair  un- 
known rival  might  be,  Helen  hated  her  increasingly  as  the 
hours  passed,  regarding  her  as  an  enemy,  a  creature  to  be  ex- 
terminated, and  swept  off^  the  board.  Jealousy  pricked  her  de- 
sire of  conquest.  An  intrigue  with  Richard  Calmady  offered 
lingular,  unique  attractions.     But  the   force  of  such  attrac- 


RAKE'S  PROGRESS 


443 


tions  was  immensely  enhanced  by  the  excitement  of  wresting 
his  affections  away  from  another  woman. 

Suddenly,  in  the  full  swing  of  these  meditations,  as  she  re- 
viewed them  for  the  hundredth  time,  Zelie's  voice  claimed  her 
attention. 

"  I  made  the  inquiries  madame  commanded." 

^  Well  ?  "  Helen  said.  She  was  standing  fastening  clusters 
of  topaz  in  the  bosom  of  her  dress. 

"The  servants  in  this  house  are  very  reserved.  They  are 
unwilling  to  give  information  regarding  their  master's  habits. 
I  could  only  learn  that  Sir  Richard  occupies  the  entresol. 
Communicating  as  it  does  with  the  garden,  no  doubt  it  is  con- 
venient to  a  gentleman  so  afflicted  as  himself." 

Helen  bowed  herself  together,  while  the  black  lace  and 
China-crape  skirt  slipped  over  her  head.  Emerging  from 
which  temporary  eclipse,  she  said  : — 

"  But  do  people  stay  here  much  ?  Does  my  cousin  enter- 
tain ?     That  is  what  I  told  you  to  find  out." 

"  As  I  tell  madame,  the  servants  are  difficult  of  approach. 
They  are  very  correct.  They  fear  their  master,  but  they  also 
iidore  him.  Charles  can  obtain  little  more  information  than 
myself.  But  he  infers  that  Sir  Richard,  when  at  the  villa, 
lives  in  retirement — that  he  is  subject  to  fits  of  melancholy. 
There  will  be  little  diversion  for  madame  it  is  to  be  feared ! 
But  what  would  you  have  ?  Even  though  one  should  be 
young  and  rich  ce  ne  serait  que  peu  amusant  d'etre  estropie^ 
d'etre  monstre  enfin''' 

Helen  drew  in  her  breath  with  a  little  sigh  of  content,  while 
taking  a  final  look  at  herself  in  the  oval  glass.  The  soft,  float- 
ing draperies,  the  many  jewels,  each  with  its  heart  of  quick, 
yellow-pink  light,  produced  a  combination  at  once  sombre  and 
vivid.  It  satisfied  her  sense  of  artistic  fitness.  Decidedly  she 
did  well  to  begin  with  the  black  dress,  since  it  had  in  it  a  qual- 
ity rather  of  romance  than  of  worldliness  !  Meanwhile  Zelie, 
kneeling,  straightened  out  the  folds  of  the  long  train. 

'^  Ah  !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  I  had  forgotten  also  to  inform 
madame  that  M.  Destournelle  has  arrived  in  Naples.  Charles, 
thinking  of  nothing  less  than  such  an  encounter,  met  him  this 
morning  on  the  quay  of  the  Santa  Lucia." 

Helen  wheeled  round  violently,  much  to  the  discomfiture  of 
those  carefully  adjusted  folds. 


444  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

"  Intolerable  man  !  "  she  cried.  "  What  on  earth  is  he  do- 
ing here  ?  " 

"  That,  Charles  naturally  could  not  inquire. — Will  madame 
kindly  remain  tranquil  for  a  moment  ?  She  has  torn  a  small 
piece  of  lace  which  must  be  controlled  by  a  pin.  Probably 
monsieur  is  still  en  voyage^  is  visiting  friends  as  is  madame  herself." 

A  sudden  distrust  that  the  black  dress  was  too  mature,  that 
it  constituted  an  admission  of  departing  youth,  invaded  Helen. 
The  reflection  in  the  oval  mirror  once  more  caused  her  dis- 
comfort. 

"Tell  Charles  that  I  am  no  longer  acquainted  with  M. 
Destournelle.     If  he  presumes  to  call  he  is  to  be  refused." 

Helen  set  her  teeth.  But  whether  in  anger  towards  her 
discarded  lover,  or  the  black  dress,  she  would  have  found  it 
difficult  to  declare.  Again  uncertainty  held  her,  suspicion  of 
circumstance,  and,  in  a  degree,  of  herself.  The  lady's-maid, 
imperturbable,  just  conceivably  impertinent,  in  manner,  had 
risen  to  her  feet. 

"There,"  she  said,  "it  will  be  secure  for  to-night,  if  ma- 
dame will  exercise  a  moderate  degree  of  caution  and  avoid 
abrupt  movements.  Charles  says  that  monsieur  inquired  very 
urgently  after  madame.  He  appeared  dejected  and  in  weak 
health.  He  was  agitated  on  meeting  Charles.  He  trembled. 
A  little  more  and  he  would  have  wept.  It  would  be  well, 
perhaps,  that  madame  should  give  Charles  her  orders  regarding 
monsieur  herself." 

"  You  should  not  have  made  me  wear  this  gown,"  Helen 
broke  out  inconsequently.  "  It  is  depressing,  it  is  hideous.  I 
war>j:,  to  change  it." 

"  Impossible.  Madame  is  already  a  little  late,  and  there  is 
nothing  wrong  with  the  costume.  Madame  looks  magnifi- 
cent. Also  her  wardrobe  is,  at  present,  limited.  The  even- 
ing dresses  will  barely  suffice  for  a  stay  of  a  week,  and  it  is 
not  possible  for  me  to  construct  a  new  one  under  ten  days." 

Thereupon  an  opening  of  doors  and  voice  from  the  ante- 
room announcing : — 

"  Dinner  is  served,  my  lady.  Sir  Richard  is  in  the  dining- 
room." 

And  Helen  swept  forward,  somewhat  stormy  and  Cassan- 
dra-like in  her  dusky  garments.  Passing  out  through  the  high, 
narrow  doorway,  she  turned  her  head. 


RAKE'S  PROGRESS  445 

"  Charles,  under  no  circumstance — none,  understand — am  I 
at  home  to  Monsieur  Destournelle.'* 

"Very  good,  my  lady,"  and,  as  he  closed  the  double-doors, 
the  man-servant  looked  at  the  lady's-maid  his  tongue  in  his  cheek. 

But,  on  the  journey  through  the  noble  suite  of  rooms, 
Helen's  spirits  revived  somewhat.  Her  fair  head,  her  warm 
glancing  jewels,  her  graceful  and  measured  movements,  as 
given  back  by  many  tall  mirrors,  renewed  her  self-confidence. 
She  too  must  be  fond  of  her  own  image,  by  the  way,  that  un- 
known rival  to  the  dream  of  whose  approval  Richard  Calmady 
had  consecrated  these  splendid  furnishings — witness  the  mul- 
tiplicity of  looking-glasses  !  — And  then  the  prospect  of  this 
tete-a-tete  dinner,  the  interest  of  her  host's  powerful  and  enig- 
matic personality,  provoked  her  interest  to  the  point  not  only 
of  obliterating  remembrance  of  the  ill-timed  advent  of  her  ex- 
lover,  but  of  inducing  something  as  closely  akin  to  self-forget- 
fulness  as  was  possible  to  her  self-centred  nature.  She  grew 
hotly  anxious  to  obtain,  to  charm — if  it  might  be,  to  usurp  the 
whole  field  of  Richard's  attention  and  imagination. 

A  small  round  table  showed  as  an  island  of  tender  light  in 
the  dimness  of  the  vast  room.  And  Richard,  sitting  at  it 
awaiting  her  coming,  appeared  more  nearly  related  to  the 
Richard  of  Brockhurst  and  of  five  years  ago  than  he  had  done 
during  the  interview  of  the  morning.  In  any  case,  she  took 
him  more  for  granted.  While  he,  if  still  inscrutable  and  un- 
smiling, proved  an  eminently  agreeable  companion,  ready  of 
conversation,  very  much  at  his  ease,  very  much  a  cultivated 
man  of  the  world,  studious — a  little  excessively  so,  she  thought 
— in  his  avoidance  of  the  personal  note.  And  this  at  once 
piqued  Helen,  and  incited  her  to  intellectual  effort.  If  this 
was  what  he  wanted,  well,  he  should  have  it !  If  he  elected 
to  talk  of  travel,  of  ancient  and  alien  religions,  of  modern  lit- 
erature and  art,  she  could  meet  him  more  than  half-way.  Her 
intelligence  ran  nimbly  from  subject  to  subject,  point  to  point. 
She  struck  out  daring  hypotheses,  indulged  in  ingenious  para- 
dox, her  mind  charmed  by  her  own  eloquence,  her  body  com- 
forted by  costly  wines  and  delicate  meats.  Nor  did  she  fail  to 
listen  also,  knowing  how  very  dear  to  every  man  is  the  sound 
of  his  own  voice,  or  omit  to  offer  refined  flattery  of  quick 
agreement  and  seasonable  laughter.  It  was  late  when  she  rose 
from  the  table  at  last. 


446  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

"  I  have  had  a  delightful  dinner,"  she  said.  "  Absolutely  de- 
lightful. And  now  I  will  encroach  no  longer  on  your  time  or 
good  nature,  Richard.  You  have  your  own  occupations,  no 
doubt.  So,  with  thanks  for  shelter  and  generous  entertain- 
ment, we  part  for  to-night." 

She  held  out  her  hand  smiling,  but  with  an  admirable  effect 
of  discretion,  all  ardour,  all  intimacy,  kept  in  check  by  self- 
respect  and  well-bred  dignity.  Madame  de  Vallorbes  was  en- 
chanted with  the  reserve  of  her  own  demeanour.  Let  it  be 
well  understood  that  she  was  the  least  importunate,  the  least 
exacting,  the  most  adaptable,  of  guests  ! 

Richard  took  her  outstretched  hand  for  the  briefest  period 
compatible  with  courtesy.  And  a  momentary  spasm — ^so  she 
fancied — contracted  his  face. 

"  You  are  very  welcome,  Helen,"  he  said.  "  If  it  is  warm 
let  us  breakfast  in  the  pavilion  to-morrow.  Twelve — does 
that  suit  you  ?     Good-night." 

Upon  the  inlaid  writing-table  in  the  anteroom,  Helen  found 
a  long  and  impassioned  epistle  from  Paul  Destournelle.  Pe- 
rusal of  it  did  not  minister  to  peaceful  sleep.  In  the  small 
hours  she  left  her  bed,  threw  a  silk  dressing-gown  about  her, 
drew  aside  the  heavy,  blue-purple,  window  curtain  and  looked 
out.  The  sky  was  clear  and  starlit.  Naples,  with  its  curv- 
ing lines  of  innumerable  lights,  lay  outstretched  below.  In 
the  southeast,  midway  between  the  two,  a  blood-red  fire 
marked  the  summit  of  Vesuvius.  While  in  the  dimly  seen 
garden  immediately  beneath — the  paved  alleys  of  which  showed 
curiously  pale,  asserting  themselves  against  the  darkness  of  the 
flower  borders,  and  otherwise  impenetrable  shadows  of  the  ilex 
and  cypress  grove — a  living  creature  moved,  black,  slow  of 
pace,  strange  of  shape.  At  first  Helen  took  it  for  some 
strayed  animal.  It  alarmed  her,  exciting  her  to  wildest  con- 
jectures as  to  its  nature  and  purpose,  wandering  in  the  grounds 
of  the  villa  thus.  Then,  as  it  passed  beyond  the  dusky  shade 
of  the  trees,  she  recognised  it.  Richard  Calmady  shufiled 
forward  haltingly,  to  the  terminal  wall  of  the  garden,  leaned 
his  arms  on  it,  looking  down  at  the  beautiful  and  vicious  city 
and  out  into  the  night. 

Helen  de  Vallorbes  shivered — the  marble  floor  striking  up 
chill,  for  all  the  thickness  of  the  carpet,  to  her  bare  feet.  Her 
eyes  hard  with  excitement   and   her  breath  came  very 


RAKE'S  PROGRESS  447 

quick.  Suddenly,  yielding  to  an  impulse  of  superstitious 
terror,  she  dragged  the  curtains  together,  shutting  out  that 
very  pitiful  sight,  and,  turning,  fled  across  the  room  and  buried 
herself,  breathless  and  trembling,  between  the  sheets  of  the 
soft,  warm,  faintly  fragrant  bed. 

"He  is  horrible,"  she  said  aloud,  "horrible  !     And  it  has 
come  to  me  at  last.     It  has  come — I  love — I  love  1 '' 


CHAPTER  IV 

"mater  admirabilis" 

"'  I  ^HERE,  there,  my  good  soul,  don't  blubber.     Hysterics 

"^  won't  restore  Lady  Calmady  to  health,  or  bring  Sir 
Richard  back  to  England,  home,  and  duty,  or  be  a  ha'porth 
of  profit  to  yourself  or  any  other  created  being.  Keep  your 
tears  for  the  first  funeral.  For  I  tell  you  plainly  I  shan't  be 
surprised  out  of  seven  days'  sleep  if  this  business  involves  a 
visit  to  the  churchyard  before  we  get  to  the  other  side  of  it." 

John  Knott  stood  with  his  back  to  the  Chapel-Room  fire, 
his  shoulders  up  to  his  ears,  his  hands  forced  down  into  the 
pockets  of  his  riding-breeches.  Without,  black-thorn  winter 
held  the  land  in  its  cheerless  grasp.  The  spring  was  late. 
Night  frosts  obtained,  followed  by  pallid,  half-hearted  sun- 
shine in  the  early  mornings,  too  soon  obliterated  by  dreary, 
easterly  blight.  This  afternoon  offered  exception  to  the  rule 
only  in  the  additional  discomfort  of  small,  sleeting  rain  and  a 
harsh  skirling  of  wind  in  the  eastward-facing  casements. — 
"  Livery  weather,"  the  doctor  called  it,  putting  down  his 
existing  lapse  from  philosophic  tolerance  to  insuflicient  secre- 
tions of  the  biliary  duct. 

Before  him  stood  Clara — sometime  Dickie  Calmady's  de- 
voted nurse  and  playfellow — her  eyes  very  bright  and  moist, 
the  reds  and  whites  of  her  fresh  complexion  in  lamentable  dis- 
array. 

"  I'd  never  have  believed  it  of  Sir  Richard,"  she  assented, 
chokingly.  "  It  isn't  like  him,  so  pretty  as  he  was  in  all  his 
little  ways,  and  loving  to  her  ladyship,  and  civilly  behaved  to 
everybody,  and  careful  of  hurting  anybody's  feelings — more  so 


448  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

than  you'd  expect  in  a  young  gentleman  like  him.  No !  it 
isn't  like  him.  In  my  opinion  he's  been  got  hold  of  by  some 
designing  person,  who's  worked  on  him  to  keep  him  away  to 
serve  their  own  ends.  There,  I'd  never  have  believed  it  of 
him,  that  I  wouldn't !  " 

The  doctor's  massive  head  sank  lower,  his  massive  shoulders 
rose  higher,  his  loose  lips  twisted  into  a  snarling  smile. 

"  Lord  bless  you,  that's  nothing  new  !  We  none  of  us 
ever  do  believe  it  of  them  when  the  little  beggars  are  in  long 
clothes,  or  first  breeched  for  that  matter.  It's  a  trick  of 
Mother  Nature's — one-idead  old  lady,  who  cares  not  a  pin  for 
morality,  but  only  for  increase.  She  knows  well  enough  if  we 
did  believe  it  of  them  we  should  clear  them  off  wholesale, 
along  with  the  blind  kittens  and  puppies.  A  bucket  full  of 
water,  and  broom  to  keep  them  under,  would  make  for  a 
mighty  lessening  of  subsequent  violations  of  the  Decalogue ! 
Don't  tell  me  King  Herod  was  not  something  of  a  philan- 
thropist when  he  got  to  work  on  the  infant  population  of 
Bethlehem.  One  woman  wept  for  each  of  the  little  brats 
then,  but  his  Satanic  Majesty  only  knows  how  many  women 
wouldn't  have  had  cause  to  weep  for  each  one  of  them  later, 
if  they'd  been  spared  to  grow  up." 

While  speaking,  Dr.  Knott  kept  his  gaze  fixed  upon  his 
companion.  His  humour  was  none  of  the  gentlest  truly,  yet 
he  did  not  let  that  obscure  the  main  issue.  He  had  business 
with  Clara,  and  merely  waited  till  the  reds  and  whites  of  her 
comely  face  should  have  resumed  their  more  normal  relations 
before  pursuing  it.  He  talked,  as  much  to  afford  her  oppor- 
tunity to  overcome  her  emotion,  as  to  give  relief  to  his  own. 
Though  now  well  on  the  wrong  side  of  sixty,  John  Knott  virzs 
hale  and  vigorous  as  ever.  His  rough-hewn  countenance 
bore  even  closer  resemblance,  perhaps,  to  that  of  some  stone 
gargoyle  carved  on  cathedral  buttress  or  spout.  But  his  hand 
was  no  less  skilful,  his  tongue  no  less  ready  in  denunciation 
of  all  he  reckoned  humbug,  his  heart  no  less  deeply  touched, 
for  all  his  superficial  irascibility,  by  the  pains,  and  sins,  and 
grinding  miseries,  of  poor  humanity  than  of  old. 

^'  That's  right  now,"  he  said  approvingly,  as  the  heaving  of 
Clara's  bosom  became  less  pronounced.  "  Wipe  your  eyes, 
and  keep  your  nerves  steady.  You've  got  a  head  on  your 
shoulders — always  had.     Well,  keep  it  screwed  on  the  right 


RAKE'S  PROGRESS  449 

way,  for  you'll  need  all  the  common  sense  that  is  in  it  if  we 
are  to  pull  Lady  Calmady  through.  Do? — To  begin  with 
this,  give  her  food  every  two  hours  or  so.  Coax  her,  scold 
her,  reason  with  her,  cry  even. — After  all,  I  give  you  leave 
to,  just  a  little,  if  that  will  serve  your  purpose  and  not  make 
your  hand  shake — only  make  her  take  nourishment.  If  you 
don't  wind  up  the  clock  regularly,  some  fine  morning  you'll 
find  the  wheels  have  run  down." 

"  But  her  ladyship  won't  have  any  one  sit  up  with  her." 

*^  Very  well,  then  sleep  next  door.  Only  go  in  at  twelve 
and  two,  and  again  between  five  and  six." 

^^  But  she  won't  have  anybody  occupy  the  dressing-room. 
It  used  to  be  the  night  nursery  you  remember,  sir,  and  not  a 
thing  in  it  has  been  touched  since  Sir  Richard  moved  down  to 
the  gun-room  wing." 

"  Oh,  fiddle-de-dee  !  It's  just  got  to  be  touched  now,  then. 
I  can't  be  bothered  with  sentiment  when  it's  ten  to  one 
whether  I  save  my  patient." 

Again  sobs  rose  in  Clara's  throat.  The  poor  woman  was 
hard  pressed.  But  that  fixed  gaze  from  beneath  the  shaggy 
eyebrows  was  upon  her,  and,  with  quaint  gurglings,  she  fought 
down  the  ^obs. 

"  My  lady's  as  gentle  as  a  lamb,"  she  said,  "  and  I'd  give 
the  last  drop  of  my  blood  for  her.  But  talk  of  managing  her, 
of  making  her  do  anything,  as  well  try  to  manage  the  wind, 
she's  that  set  in  her  ways  and  obstinate  !  " 

"  If  you  can't  manage  her,  who  can  ? — Mr.  March  ?  " 

Clara  shook  her  head.  Then  reluctantly,  for  though  hon- 
estly ready  to  lay  down  her  life  for  her  mistress,  she  found  it 
far  from  easy  to  invite  supersession  in  respect  of  her,  she 
said  : — "  Miss  St.  Quentin's  more  likely  to  get  round  my  lady 
than  any  one  else." 

"Well,  then,  I'll  talk  to  her.  Where  is  Miss  St. 
Quentin  ?  " 

"  Here,  Dr.  Knott.     Do  you  want  me  ?  " 

Honoria  had  strolled  into  the  room  from  the  stairhead,  her 
attention  arrested  by  the  all-too-familiar  sound — since  sorrow- 
ful happenings  often  of  late  had  brought  him  to  Brockhurst — 
of  the  doctor's  voice.  The  skirt  of  the  young  lady's  habit, 
gathered  up  in  her  left  hand,  displayed  a  slightly  unconven- 
tional length  of  muddy  riding-boot.     The  said  skirt,  her  tan, 


450  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

covert  coat,  and  slouched,  felt  hat,  were  furred  with  wet. 
Her  garments,  indeed,  showed  evident  traces  of  hard  service, 
and,  though  notably  well  cut,  were  far  from  new  or  smart. 
They  were  sad-coloured,  moreover,  as  is  the  fashion  of  gar- 
ments designed  for  work.  And  this  weather-stained,  mud- 
bespattered  costume,  taken  in  connection  with  her  pale,  sensi- 
tive face,  her  gallant  bearing,  and  the  luminous  smile  with 
which  she  greeted  not  only  Dr.  Knott  but  the  slightly  flustered 
Clara,  offered  a  picture  pensive  in  tone,  but  very  harmonious, 
and  of  a  singularly  sincere  and  restful  quality.  To  all,  in- 
deed, save  those  troubled  by  an  accusing  conscience  and  fear 
of  detection,  Honoria  St.  Quentin's  presence  brought  a  sense 
of  security  and  reassurance  at  this  period  of  her  development. 
Her  enthusiasms  remained  to  her,  but  they  were  tempered  by  a 
wider  experience  and  a  larger  charity — at  least  in  the  majority 
of  cases. 

"  I'm  in  a  beastly  mess,"  she  observed  casually. 

"  So  are  we,"  Knott  answered.  He  had  a  great  liking  for 
this  young  lady,  finding  in  her  a  certain  stoicism  along  with  a 
quickness  of  practical  help.  "  But  our  mess  is  worse  than 
yours,  in  that  it  is  internal  rather  than  external.  Yours'll 
brush  ofF.  Not  so  ours — eh,  Clara  ?  There,  you  can  go. 
ril  talk  things  over  with  Miss  St.  Quentin,  and  she'll  talk  'em 
over  with  you  later." 

Honoria's  expression  had  grown  anxious.  She  spoke  in  a 
lower  tone  of  voice. 

"  Is  Lady  Calmady  worse  ?  " 

"In  a  sense,  yes — simply  because  she  is  no  better. 
And  she's  ill,  I  tell  you,  just  as  dangerously  ill  as  any 
woman  can  be,  who  has  nothing  whatever  actually  the  matter 
with  her." 

^'Except  an  only  son,"  put  in  Honoria.  "I  am  be- 
ginning to  suspect  that  is  about  the  most  deadly  disease  going. 
The  only  thing  to  be  said  in  its  favour  is  that  it  is  not  in- 
fectious." 

John  Knott  could  not  quite  keep  admiration  from  his  eyes, 
or  provocation  from  his  tongue.  He  richly  enjoyed  getting  a 
rise  out  of  Miss  St.  Quentin. 

"  I  am  not  so  sure  of  that,"  he  said.  "  In  the  case  of  beau- 
tiful women,  judging  by  history,  it  has  shown  a  tendency  to  be 
recurrently  sporadic  in  any  case." 


RAKE'S  PROGRESS  451 

"  Recommend  all  such  to  spend  a  few  months  at  Brock- 
hurst  then,  under  existing  circumstances,"  Honoria  answered. 
"  There  will  be  very  little  fear  for  them  after  that.  They 
will  have  received  such  a  warning,  swallowed  such  an  anti- 
dote ! — It  is  like  assisting  at  the  infliction  of  slow  torture.  It 
almost  gets  on  one's  brain  at  times." 

"  Why  do  you  stay  on  then  ?  " 

Honoria  looked  down  at  her  muddy  boots  and  then  across 
at  the  doctor.  She  was  slightly  the  taller  of  the  two,  for  in 
these  days  his  figure  had  fallen  together  and  he  had  taken  to 
stooping.  Her  expression  had  a  delightful  touch  of  self- 
depreciation. 

"  Why  does  any  one  stay  by  a  sinking  ship,  or  volunteer  for 
a  forlorn  hope  ?  Why  do  you  sit  up  all  night  with  a  case  of 
confluent  smallpox,  or  suck  away  the  poisonous  membrane 
from  a  diphtheric  throat,  as  I  hear  you  did  only  last  week  ?  I 
don't  know.  Just  because,  if  we  are  made  on  certain  lines, 
we  have  to,  I  suppose.  One  would  be  a  trifle  too  much 
ashamed  to  be  seen  in  one's  own  company,  afterwards,  if  onje 
deserted.  It  really  requires  less  pluck  to  stick  than  to  run — ■ 
that's  the  reason  probably. — But  about  dear  Lady  Calmady. 
The  excellent  Clara  was  in  tears.  Is  there  any  fresh  mischief 
over  and  above  the  only  son  r  " 

"  Not  at  present.  But  it's  an  open  question  how  soon  there 
may  be. — Good-day,  Mr.  March.  Been  riding  ?  Ought  to 
be  a  bit  careful  of  that  cranky  chest  of  yours  in  this  con- 
founded weather. — Lady  Calmady  ? — Yes,  as  I  was  telling 
Miss  St.  Quentin,  her  strength  is  so  reduced  that  compli- 
cations may  arise  any  day.  A  chill,  and  her  lungs  may  go ;  a 
shock,  and  her  heart.  It  comes  to  a  mere  question  of  the 
point  of  least  resistance.  I  won't  guarantee  the  continued 
soundness  of  any  organ  unless  we  get  changed  conditions,  a 
let  up  of  some  sort." 

The  doctor  looked  up  from  under  his  eyebrows,  first  at 
Honoria  and  then  at  Julius.  He  spoke  bitterly,  defiant  of  his 
inclination  towards  tenderness. 

"  She's  just  worn  herself  out,"  he  said,  "  that's  the  fact,  in 
the  service  of  others,  loving,  giving,  attempting  the  impossible 
m  the  way  of  goodness  all  round.  '  Be  not  righteous  over 
much' — there's  a  text  to  that  effect  in  the  Scriptures,  Mr. 
March,  isn't  there  ?     Preach  a  good,  rattfing  sermon  on  it 


452  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

next  Sunday  to  Lady  Calmady,  if  you  want  to  keep  her  here  a 
bit  longer.  Nature  abhors  a  vacuum.  Granted.  But  nature 
abhors  excess,  even  of  virtue.  And  punishes  it  just  as  harshly 
as  excess  of  vice. — Yes,  I  tell  you,  she's  worn  herself  out." 

Miss  St.  Quentin  dropped  into  a  chair  and  sat  bowed 
together,  her  hands  on  her  knees,  her  feet  rather  far  apart. 
The  brim  of  her  hat,  pulled  down  in  front  to  let  the  rain  run 
ofF^  partially  concealed  her  face.  She  was  not  sorry,  for  a 
movement  of  defective  courage  was  upon  her,  evidence  of 
which  she  preferred  to  keep  to  herself.  Julius  March  re- 
mained silent.  And  this  she  resented  slightly,  for  she  badly 
wanted  somebody  to  say  something,  either  vindictive  or  con- 
solatory. Then,  indignation  getting  the  better  alike  of  ret- 
icence and  charity,  she  exclaimed: — 

"  It  is  unpardonable.  It  ought  to  be  impossible  one  person 
should  have  power  to  kill  another  by  inches,  like  this,  with 
impunity." 

Ludovic  Quayle  had  sauntered  into  the  room  behind  Julius 
March.  He  too  was  wet  and  dirty,  but  such  trifles  in  no  wise 
affected  the  completeness  of  his  urbanity.  His  long  neck 
directed  forward,  as  in  polite  inquiry,  he  advanced  to  the 
little  group  by  the  fire,  and  took  up  his  station  beside  Honoria's 
chair. 

"  Pardon  me,  my  dear  Miss  St.  Quentin,"  he  asked 
sweetly,  "  but  why  the  allusions  to  murder  ?  What  is  un- 
pardonable ?  " 

"  Sir  Richard  Calmady's  conduct,"  she  answered  shortly. 
She  threw  back  her  head  and  addressed  Dr.  Knott.  "  It  is  so 
detestably  unjust.  What  possible  quarrel  has  he  with  her, 
after  all  ? " 

''  Ah  !  that — that — lies  very  deep.  A  thing,  perhaps,  only 
a  man,  or  a  mother,  can  quite  comprehend,"  the  doctor 
answered  slowly. 

Honoria's  straight  eyebrows  drew  together.  She  objected 
to  extenuating  circumstances  in  this  connection,  yet,  as  she 
admitted,  reason  usually  underlay  all  Dr.  Knott's  statements. 
She  divined,  moreover,  that  reason,  just  now,  touched  upon 
matters  inconveniently  intimate.  She  abstained,  therefore, 
from  protest  or  comment.  But,  since  feminine  emotion,  even 
in  the  least  weakly  of  the  sex,  is  bound  to  lind  an  outlet,  she 
turned  upon  poor*Mr.  Quayle. 


RAKE'S  PROGRESS  453 

"  He  is  your  friend,"  she  said.  "  The  rest  of  us  are  help- 
less. You  ought  to  take  measures.  You  ought  to  suggest  a 
remedy." 

"With  all  the  pleasure  in  life,"  the  young  man  answered. 
"  But  you  may  remember  that  you  delivered  yourself  of  pre- 
cisely ^e  same  sentiments  a  year  and  a  half  ago.  And  that, 
fired  with  the  ardour  of  a  chivalrous  obedience,  I  fled  over  the 
face  of  the  European  continent  in  hot  pursuit  of  poor,  dear 
Dickie  Calmady." 

"  Poor,  dear !  "  ejaculated  Honoria. 

*^  Yes,  very  much  poor,  dear,  through  it  all,"  the  young  man 
affirmed.  "  Breathless,  but  still  obedient,  I  came  up  with  him 
at  Odessa." 

"  What  was  he  doing  there  ?  "  put  in  the  doctor. 

Mr.  Quayle  regarded  him  not  without  humour. 

"  Really,  I  am  not  my  friend's  keeper,  though  Miss  St. 
Quentin  is  pleased  to  make  me  a  handsome  present  of  that 
enviable  office.  And  so — well — I  didn't  inquire  what  he  was 
doing.  To  tell  the  truth,  I  had  not  much  opportunity,  for 
though  I  found  him  charming, — yes,  charming.  Miss  St.  Quen- 
tin,— I  also  found  him  wholly  unapproachable  regarding  ^mily 
affairs.  When,  with  a  diplomatic  ingenuity  upon  which  I 
cannot  but  congratulate  myself,  I  suggested  the  advisability  of 
a  return  to  Brockhurst,  in  the  civilest  way  in  the  world  he 
showed  me  the  door.  Impertinence  is  not  my  forte,  I  am 
by  nature  humble-minded.  But,  I  give  you  my  word,  that 
was  a  little  episode  of  which  I  do  not  crave  the  repetition." 

Growling  to  himself,  clasping  his  hands  behind  his  back, 
John  Knott  shifted  his  position.  Then,  taken  with  that  de- 
sire of  clergy-baiting,  which  would  seem  to  be  inherent  in 
members  of  the  Faculty,  he  addressed  Julius  March. 

"  Come,  now,"  he  said,  "  your  pupil  doesn't  do  you  ai) 
overwhelming  amount  of  credit  it  must  be  admitted,  still  you 
ought  to  be  able  to  give  an  expert's  opinion  upon  the  tendencies 
of  his  character.  How  much  longer  do  you  allow  him  before 
he  grows  tired  of  filling  his  belly  with  the  husks  the  swine  eat  ?  " 

"  God  knows,  not  I,"  Julius  answered  sadly,  but  without 
rancour.  "  I  confess  to  the  faithlessness  of  despair  at  times. 
And  yet,  being  his  mother's  son,  he  cannot  but  tire  of  it 
eventually,  and  when  he  does  so  the  revulsion  will  be  final, 
the  restoration  complete " 


454  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

"  He'll  die  the  death  of  the  righteous  ?  Oh  yes  !  I  agree 
there,  for  there's  fine  stuff  in  him,  never  doubt  that.  He'll 
end  well  enough.  Only  the  beginning  of  that  righteous  end- 
ing, if  delayed  much  longer,  may  come  a  bit  too  late  for  the 
saving  of  my  patient's  life  and — reason." 

"  Do  you  mean  it  is  as  serious  as  all  that  ?  "  Ludovic  asked 
with  sudden  anxiety. 

"  Every  bit  as  serious  ! — Oh !  you  should  have  let  your 
sister  marry  him,  Mr.  Quayle.  Then  he  would  have  settled 
down,  come  into  line  with  the  average,  and  been  delivered 
from  the  morbid  sense  of  outlawry  which  had  been  growing 
on  him — it  couldn't  be  helped,  on  the  whole  he  has  kept  very 
creditably  sane  in  my  opinion — from  the  time  he  began  to 
mix  freely  in  general  society.  I'm  not  very  soft  or  sickly 
sentimental  at  my  time  of  day,  but  I  tell  you  it  turns  my 
stomach  to  think  of  all  he  must  have  gone  through,  poor 
chap.  It's  a  merciless  world.  Miss  St.  Quentin,  and  no  one 
knows  that  better  than  we  case-hardened  old  sinners  of 
doctors. — Yes,  your  sister  should  have  married  him,  and  we 
might  have  been  saved  all  this.  I  doubted  the  wisdom  of  the 
step  at  the  time.  But  I  was  a  fool.  I  see  now  his  mother's 
instinct  was  right." 

Mr.  Quayle  pursed  up  his  small  mouth  and  gently  shrugged 
his  shoulders. 

"  It  is  a  delicate  subject  on  which  to  offer  an  opinion,"  he 
said.  "  I  debated  it  freely  in  the  privacy  of  my  inner  con- 
sciousness at  the  time,  I  assure  you.  If  Lady  Calmady  had 
lighted  upon  the  right,  the  uniquely  right,  woman — perhaps 
— yes.  But  to  shore  up  a  twenty-foot,  stone  wall  with  a  wisp 
of  straw, — my  dear  doctor,  does  that  proceeding  approve  itself 
to  your  common  sense  ?  And,  as  is  a  wisp  of  straw  to  such 
a  wall,  so  was  my  poor,  little  sister, — it's  hardly  flattering  to 
my  family  pride  to  admit  it, — but  thus  indeed  was  she,  and  no 
otherwise,  to  Dickie  Calmady." 

Whereupon  Honoria  glanced  up  gratefully  at  the  speaker, 
for  even  yet  her  conscience  pricked  her  concerning  the  part 
she  had  played  in  respect  of  that  broken  engagement.  While 
John  Knott,  observant  of  that  upward  glance,  was  once  again 
struck  by  her  manifest  sincerity,  and  the  gallant  grace  of  her, 
heightened  by  those  workmanlike  and  mud-bespattered  gar- 
ments.    And,  being  so  struck,  he  was  once  again  tempted  by, 


RAKE'S  PROGRESS  455 

and  once  again  yielded  himself  to,  the  pleasures  of  provoca- 
tion. 

"  Marry  him  yourself,  Miss  St.  Quentin,*'  he  growled,  a 
touch  of  earnest  behind  his  raillery,  "  marry  him  yourself  and 
so  set  the  rest  of  us  free  of  the  whole  pother.  I'd  back  you 
to  handle  him  or  any  fellow  living,  with  mighty  great  suc- 
cess, if  you'd  the  mind  to  !  " 

For  a  moment  it  seemed  open  to  question  whether  that  very 
fair  fish  might  not  make  short  work  of  angler  as  well  as  of 
bait.  But  Honoria  relented,  refusing  provocation.  And  this 
not  wholly  in  mercy  to  the  speaker,  but  because  it  offered  her 
an  opportunity  of  reading  Mr.  Quayle  a,  perhaps  useful,  lesson. 
Her  serious  eyes  narrowed,  and  her  upper  lip  shortened  into  a 
delightful  smile. 

"  Hopeless,  Dr.  Knott !  "  she  answered.  "  To  begin  with 
he'll  never  ask  me,  since  we  like  each  other  very  royally  ill. 
And  to  end  with — "  she  carefully  avoided  sight  of  Mr. 
Quaylc — "  I — you  see — Fm  not  what  you  call  a  marrying 
man." 


CHAPTER  V 

EXIT   CAMP 

A  BOUT  twenty  minutes  later  the  young  lady,  still  booted 
and  spurred,  opened  the  door  which  leads  from  the 
Chapel-Room  into  Lady  Calmady's  bedchamber.  As  she 
did  so  a  gentle  warmth  met  her,  along  with  a  sweetness  of 
flowers.  Within,  the  melancholy  of  the  bleak  twilight  was 
mitigated  by  the  soft  brightness  of  a  pink-shaded  lamp,  and  a 
fitful  flickering  of  firelight.  This  last,  playing  upon  the  blue- 
and-white,  Dutch  tiling  of  the  hearth  and  chimney-space, con- 
ferred a  quaint  effect  of  activity  upon  the  actors  in  the  biblical 
scenes  thereon  depicted.  The  patriarch  Abraham  visibly 
flourished  his  two-inch  sword  above  the  prostrate  form  of 
hapless  Isaac.  The  elders  pranced,  unblushingly,  in  pursuit 
of  the  chaste  Susanna.  While  poor  little  Tobit,  fish  in  hand, 
clung  anxiously  to  the  flying  draperies  of  his  long-legged,  and 
all-too-peripatetic,  guardian  angel.     Such  profane  vivacity,  on 


456  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

the  part  of  persons  usually  accounted  sacred,  offered  marked 
and  almost  cynical  contrast  to  the  extreme  quiet  otherwise 
obtaining,  accentuated  the  absoluteness,  deepened  the  depth, 
of  it.  For  nothing  stirred  within  the  length  and  breadth  of 
the  room,  nor  did  any  smallest  sound  disturb  the  prevailing 
silence.  At  these  southward-facing  casements  no  harsh  wind 
shrilled.  The  embroidered  curtains  of  the  state-bed  hung  in 
stiff",  straight  folds.  The  many-coloured  leaves  and  branches 
of  the  trees  of  the  Forest  of  This  Life  were  motionless.  Care, 
the  Leopard,  crouched,  unobservant,  forgetful  to  spring,  while 
the  Hart  was  fixed  spellbound  in  the  midst  of  its  headlong 
flight.  A  spell  seemed,  indeed,  to  rest  on  all  things,  which 
had  in  it  more  than  the  watchful  hush  of  the  ordinary  sick- 
room. It  suggested  a  certain  moral  attitude — a  quiet,  not 
acquiesced  in  merely,  but  promoted. 

Upon  Honoria — her  circulation  quickened  by  recent  exer- 
cise, her  cheeks  still  tingling  from  the  stinging  sleet,  her 
retina  still  retaining  impressions  of  the  stern  grandeur  of  the 
wide-ranging  fir  woods  and  gray-brown  desolation  of  the 
moors — this  extreme  quiet  produced  an  extremely  disquieting 
effect.  Passing  from  the  Chapel-Room  and  the  society  of  her 
late  companions — all  three  persons  of  distinct  individuality, 
all  three  possessing,  though  from  very  differing  standpoints,  a 
definitely  masculine  outlook  on  life — into  this  silent  bed- 
chamber, she  seemed  to  pass  with  startling  abruptness  from 
the  active  to  the  passive,  from  the  objective  to  the  subjective 
side  of  things,  from  the  world  that  creates  to  that  which 
obeys,  merely,  and  waits.  The  present  and  masculine,  with 
its  clear  practical  reason,  its  vigorous  purposes,  was  exchanged 
for  a  place  peopled  by  memories  only,  dedicated  wholly  to 
submissive  and  patient  endurance.  And  this  fell  in  extremely 
ill  with  Honoria's  present  humour,  while  the  somewhat  un- 
seemly antics  of  the  small,  scriptural  personages,  pictured 
upon  the  chimney-space  and  hearth,  troubled  her  imagination, 
in  that  they  added  a  point  of  irony  to  this  apparent 
triumph  of  the  remote  over  the  immediate,  of  tradition  over 
fact. 

Nor  as,  stung  with  unspoken  remonstrance,  she  approached 
Lady  Calmady  was  this  sense  of  intrusion  into  an  alien  region 
lessened,  or  her  appreciation  of  the  difiiculties  of  the  mission 
she  had  been   deputed  by  doctor,  priest,  and  amiable  young 


RAKE'S  PROGRESS  457 

fine  gentleman — her  late  companions — to  fulfil,  by  any  means 
lightened. 

For  Katherine  lay  back  in  the  great  rose-silk  and  muslin- 
covered  armchair,  at  right  angles  to  the  fireplace,  motionless, 
not  a  participant  merely,  so  it  seemed  to  the  intruder,  in  that 
all-embracing  quiet,  but  the  very  source  and  centre  of  it,  its 
nucleus  and  heart.  The  lines  of  her  figure  were  shrouded  in 
a  loose,  wadded  gown  of  dove-coloured  silk,  bordered  with 
swan's-down.  A  coif  of  rare,  white  lace  covered  her  upturned 
hair.  Her  eyes  were  closed,  the  rim  of  the  eye-socket  being 
very  evident.  While  her  face,  though  smooth  and  still  gra- 
ciously young,  was  so  attenuated  as  to  appear  almost  transpar- 
ent. Now,  as  often  before,  it  struck  Honoria  that  a  very 
exquisite  spiritual  quality  was  present  in  her  aspect — her  whole 
bearing  and  expression  betraying,  less  the  languor  and  defeat  of 
physical  illness,  than  the  exhaustion  of  long  sustained  moral 
effort,  followed  by  the  calm  of  entire  self-dedication  and  renun- 
ciation of  will. 

On  the  table  at  her  elbow  were  a  bowl  of  fresh-picked 
violets  and  greenhouse-grown  tea-roses,  some  books  of  the 
hour,  both  English  and  French,  a  miniature  of  Dickie  at  the 
age  of  thirteen — the  proud,  little  head  and  its  cap  of  close- 
cropped  curls  showing  up  against  a  background  of  thick-set 
foliage.  On  the  table,  too,  lay  a  well-worn,  vellum-bound 
copy  of  that  holiest  of  books  ever,  perhaps,  conceived  by  the 
heart  and  written  by  the  hand  of  man — Thomas  a  Kempis' 
Imitation  of  Christ,  It  was  open  at  the  chapter  which  is  thus 
entitled — "  Of  the  Zealous  Amendment  of  our  Whole  Life." 
While  close  against  it  was  a  packet  of  Richard's  letters — 
those  curt,  businesslike  communications,  faultlessly  punctual 
in  their  weekly  arrival,  which,  while  they  relieved  her  anxiety 
as  to  his  material  well-being,  stabbed  his  mother's  heart  only 
less  by  the  little  they  said,  than  by  all  they  left  unsaid. 

And  looking  upon  that  mother  now,  taking  cognisance  of 
her  surroundings,  Honoria  St.  Quentin's  young  indignation, 
once  again,  waxed  hot.  While,  since  it  was  the  tendency  of 
her  mind  to  run  eagerly  towards  theory,  tq  pass  from  the 
particular  to  the  general,  and  instinctively  to  apprehend  the 
relation  of  the  individual  to  the  mass,  looking  thus  upon 
Katherine,  she  rebelled,  not  only  against  the  doom  of  this  one 
woman,  but  against  that  doom  of  universal  womanhood  of 


458  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

which  she  offered,  just  now,  only  too  eloquent  an  example. 
And  a  burning  compassion  animated  Honoria  for  feminine  as 
against  all  masculine  creatures,  for  the  bitter  patience  demanded 
of  the  passive,  as  against  the  large  latitude  permitted  the  active 
principle;  for  the  perpetual  humiliation  of  the  subjective  and 
spiritual  under  the  heavy  yoke  of  the  objective  and  practical, — 
for  the  brief  joy  and  long  barrenness  of  all  those  who  are  con- 
demned to  obey  and  to  wait,  merely,  as  against  those  who  are 
born  to  command  and  to  create. 

From  a  child  she  had  been  aware  of  the  element  of  tragedy 
inherent  in  the  fact  of  womanhood.  It  had  quickened  exag- 
gerations of  sentiment  in  her  at  times,  and  pushed  her  into  not 
a  little  knight-errantry, — witness  the  affair  of  Lady  Constance 
Quayle's  engagement.  But,  though  more  sober  in  judgment 
than  of  old  and  less  ready  to  get  her  lance  in  rest,  the  existence 
of  that  tragic  element  had  never  disclosed  itself  more  convinc- 
ingly to  her  than  at  the  present  moment,  nor  had  the  necessity 
to  attempt  the  assuaging  of  the  smart  of  it  called  upon  her  with 
more  urgent  voice.  Yet  she  recognised  that  such  attempt 
taxed  all  her  circumspection,  all  her  imaginative  sympathy  and 
tact.  Very  free  criticism  of  the  master  of  the  house,  of  his 
sins  of  omission  and  commission  alike,  were  permissible  in  the 
Chapel-Room  and  in  the  presence  of  her  late  companions. 
The  subject,  unhappily,  had  called  for  too  frequent  mention, 
by  now,  for  any  circumlocution  to  be  incumbent  in  the  dis- 
cussion of  it.  But  here,  in  the  brooding  quiet  of  this  bed- 
chamber, and  in  Lady  Calmady's  presence,  all  that  was 
changed.  Trenchant  statements  of  opinion,  words  of  blame, 
were  proscribed.  The  sinner,  if  spoken  of  at  all,  must  be 
spoken  of  with  due  reticence  and  respect,  his  wilfulness  ignored, 
the  unloveliness  of  his  conduct  gently,  even  eagerly,  explained 
away. 

And,  therefore,  it  came  about  that  this  fair  champion  of 
much-wronged  womanhood,  though  fired  with  the  zeal  of 
righteous  anger,  had  to  go  very  softly  and  set  a  watch  before 
her  lips.  But  as  she  paused,  fearful  to  break  in  too  abruptly 
upon  Lady  Calmady's  repose,  she  began  to  question  fearfully 
whether  speech  was,  in  truth,  still  available  as  a  means  of  com- 
munication between  herself  and  the  object  of  her  solicitude. 
For  Lady  Calmady  lay  so  very  still,  her  sweet  face  showed  so 
transparent  against  the   rose-silk,  muslin-covered  pillows,  that 


RAKE'S  PROGRESS  459 

the  younger  woman  was  shaken  by  a  swift  dread  that  Dr. 
Knott's  melancholy  predictions  had  already  found  fulfilment, 
and  that  the  lovely,  labour-wasted  body  had  already  let  the 
valiant,  love-wasted  soul  depart. 

"  Cousin  Katherine,  dear  Cousin  Katherine,"  she  called  very 
gently,  under  her  breath,  and  then  waited  almost  awestricken, 
sensible,  to  the  point  of  distress,  alike  of  the  profound  quiet, 
which  it  seemed  as  an  act  of  profanity  to  have  even  assayed  to 
break,  and  of  the  malign  activity  of  those  little,  scriptural 
figures  anticking  so  wildly  in  the  chimney-space  and  on  the 
hearth. 

Seconds,  to  Honoria  of  measureless  duration,  elapsed  before 
Lady  Calmady  gave  sign  of  life.  At  length  she  moved  her 
hands,  as  though  gathering,  with  infinite  tenderness,  some 
small  and  helpless  creature  close  and  warm  against  her  bosom. 
Honoria's  vision  grew  somewhat  blurred  and  misty.  Then, 
with  a  long-drawn,  fluttering  sigh,  Katherine  looked  up  at  the 
tall,  straight  figure. 

^'  Dick — ah,  you've  come  in  !  My  beloved — have  you  had 
good  sport  ?  "  she  said. 

Honoria  sat  down  on  the  end  of  the  sofa,  bowing  her  head. 

"  Alas,  alas,  it  is  only  me.  Cousin  Katherine.  Nothing  bet- 
ter than  me,  Honoria  St.  Quentin.  Would  that  it  were  some 
one  better,"  and  her  voice  broke. 

But  Lady  Calmady  had  come  into  full  possession  of  her- 
self. 

"  My  dear,  I  must  have  been  dozing,  and  my  thoughts  had 
wandered  far  on  the  backward  road,  as  is  the  foolish  habit  of 
thoughts  when  one  grows  old  and  is  not  altogether  well  and 
strong." — Katherine  spoke  faintly,  yet  with  an  air  of  sweetly 
playful  apology.  "  One  is  liable  to  be  confused,  under  such 
circumstances,  when  one  first  wakes — and — you  have  the  smell 
of  the  sleet  and  the  freshness  of  the  moors  upon  you."  She 
paused,  and  then  added  : — "  But,  indeed,  the  confusion  of  sleep 
once  past,  I  could  hardly  have  anything  dearer  for  my  eyes 
first  to  light  on  than  your  very  dear  self." 

Hearing  which  gracious  words,  indignation  in  th^  cause  of 
this  woman,  burning  compassion  for  the  wrongs  and  sorrows 
of  universal  womanhood,  both  of  which  must  be  denied  ut- 
terance, worked  very  forcibly  in  Honoria.  She  bent  down 
and  taking  Lady  Calmady's  hand  kissed  it.     And,  as  she  did 


46o  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

this,  her  eyes  were  those  of  an  ardent,  yet  very  reverent 
lover,  and  so,  when  next  she  spoke,  were  the  tones  of  her 
voice. 

But  Katherine,  still  anxious  to  repair  any  defect  in  her  rec- 
ognition and  greeting,  and  still  with  that  same  effect  of  play- 
ful self-depreciation,  spoke  first. 

"  I  had  been  reviewing  many  things,  with  the  help  of  blessed 
Thomas  a  Kempis  here,  before  I  became  so  drowsy.  The 
dear  man  lays  his  finger  smartly  upon  all  the  weak  places  in 
one's  fancied  armour  of  righteousness.  It  is  sometimes  not 
quite  easy  to  be  altogether  grateful  to  him.  For  instance,  he 
has  pointed  out  to  me  conclusively  that  I  grow  reprehensibly 
selfish." 

"  Oh  come,  come  ! "  Honoria  answered,  in  loving  raillery. 
"  Thomas  is  acute  to  the  point  of  lying  if  he  has  convinced 
you  of  that ! " 

"  Unhappily,  no,"  Katherine  returned.  "  I  know  it,  I  fear, 
without  any  pointing  of  Thomas's  finger.  But  I  rather 
shirked  admission  of  my  knowledge — well,  for  the  very  bad 
reason  that  I  wanted  very  badly  to  put  off  the  day  of  amend- 
ment. Now  the  holy  man  has  toupied  my  witness  and  " — 
she  turned  her  head  against  the  pillows  and  looked  full  at  the 
younger  woman,  while  her  under-lip  quivered  a  little.  "  My 
dear,  I  have  come  to  be  very  greedy  of  the  comfort  of  your 
companionship.  I  have  been  tempted  to  consider  not  your 
advantage,  but  solely  my  own.  The  pointing  finger  of 
Thomas  has  brought  it  home  to  me  that  Brockhurst  and  I  are 
feeding  upon  your  generosity  of  time,  and  helpfulness,  to  an 
unconscionable  extent.  We  are  devouring  the  best  days  of 
your  life,  and  hindering  you  alike  from  work  and  from  pleas- 
ure. It  must  not  be.  And  so,  my  dear,  I  beg  you  go  forth, 
once  more,  to  all  your  many  friends  and  to  society.  You  are 
too  young,  and  too  gifted,  to  remain  here  in  this  sluggish 
backwater,  alongside  a  derelict  like  me.  It  is  not  right. 
You  must  make  for  the  open  stream  again  and  let  the  free 
wind  and  the  strong  current  bear  you  gladly  on  your  appointed 
course.  And  my  gratitude  and  my  blessing  will  go  with  you 
always.  But  you  must  delay  no  longer.  For  me  you  have 
done  enough." 

For  a  little  space  Honoria  held  her  friend's  hand  in  silence. 

"  Are — are — you  tired  of  me  then  ?  "  she  said. 


RAKE'S  PROGRESS  461 

"  Ah,  my  dear  !  *'  Katherine  exclaimed.  And  the  exclama- 
tion was  more  reassuring,  somehow,  than  any  denial  could 
have  been. 

"After  all,"  Honoria  went  on,  "I  really  don't  see  why 
you're  to  have  a  monopoly  of  faithfulness.  There's  selfish- 
ness now,  if  you  like — to  appropriate  a  virtue  en  bloc  not  leav- 
ing a  rag,  not  the  veriest  scrappit  of  it  for  anybody  else  ! 
And  then,  has  it  never  occurred  to  you,  that  I  may  be  just 
every  bit  as  greedy  of  your  companionship  as  you  of  mine — 
more  so,  I  fancy,  because — because " 

Honoria  bowed  her  head  and  kissed  the  hand  she  held,  once 
again. 

"  You  see — I  know  it  sounds  as  if  I  was  rather  a  beast — - 
perhaps  I  am — but  I  never  cared  for  any  one — really  to  care, 
I  mean — till  I  cared  for  you." 

''  My  dear  !  " — Katherine  said  again,  wondering,  shrinking 
somewhat,  at  once  touched  and  almost  repulsed.  The  younger 
woman's  attitude  was  so  far  removed  from  her  own  experi- 
ence. 

"  Does  it  displease  you  ?  Does  it  seem  to  you  unnatural  ?  '* 
Honoria  asked  quickly. 

"A  little,"  Lady  Calmady  answered,  smiling,  yet  very 
tenderly. 

"  All  the  same  it's  quite  true.  You  opened  a  door,  some- 
how, that  had  always  been  shut.  I  hardly  believed  in  its  ex- 
istence. Of  course  I  had  read  plenty  about  the — affections, 
shall  we  call  them  ?  And  had  heard  women  and  girls,  and 
men,  too,  for  that  matter,  talk  about  them  pretty  freely.  But 
it  bored  me  a  good  deal.  I  thought  it  all  rather  silly,  and 
rather  nasty  perhaps." — Honoria  shook  her  head.  "  It  didn't 
appeal  to  me  in  the  least.  But  when  you  opened  the  door  " — 
she  paused,  her  face  very  grave,  yet  with  a  smile  on  it,  as  she 
looked  away  at  the  little  figures  anticking  upon  the  hearth. 
*^  Oh,  dear  me,  I  own  I  was  half  scared,"  she  said,  "  it  let  in 
such  a  lot  of  light !  " 

But,  for  this  speech,  Lady  Calmady  had  no  immediate 
answer.  And  so  the  quiet  came  back,  settling  down  sensibly 
on  the  room  again — even  as,  when  at  dawn  the  camp  is  struck, 
the  secular  quiet  of  the  desert  comes  back  and  possesses  its 
own  again.  And,  in  obedience  to  that  quiet,  Katherine's 
hand  rested  passively  in  the  hand  of  her  companion,  while  she 


^■f 


462  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

gazed  wonderingly  at  the  delicate,  half-averted  face,  serious, 
lit  up  by  the  eagerness  of  a  vital  enthusiasm.  And,  having  a 
somewhat  sorrowful  fund  of  learning  to  draw  upon  in  respect 
of  the  dangers  all  eccentricity,  either  of  character  or  develop- 
ment, inevitably  brings  along  with  it,  she  trembled,  divining 
that  noble  and  strong  and  pure  though  it  was,  that  face,  and 
the  temperament  disclosed  by  it,  might  work  sorrow,  both  to 
its  possessor  and  to  others,  unless  the  enthusiasm  animating  it 
should  find  some  issue  at  once  large  and  simple  enough  to  en- 
gage its  whole  aspiration  and  power  of  work. 

But  abruptly  Honoria  broke  up  the  brooding  quiet,  laughing 
gently,  yet  with  a  catch  in  her  throat. 

"  And  when  you  had  let  in  the  light,  Cousin  Katherine, 
good  heavens,  how  thankful  I  was  I  had  never  married.  Pic- 
ture finding  out  all  that  after  one  had  bound  oneself,  after  one 
had  given  oneself!  What  an  awful  prostitution." — Her  tone 
changed  and  she  stroked  the  elder  woman's  hand  softly.  "  So 
you  see  you  can't  very  well  order  me  off,  the  pointing  finger 
of  Thomas  notwithstanding.     You  have  taught  me " 

"  Only  half  the  lesson  as  yet,"  Katherine  said.  "  The 
other  half,  and  the  doxology  which  closes  it,  neither  I,  nor  any 
other  woman,  can  teach  you." 

"  You  really  believe  that  ?  " 

"  Ah !  my  dear,"  Katherine  said,  "  I  do  more  than  believe, 
I  know  it." 

The  younger  woman  regarded  her  searchingly.  Then  she 
shook  her  charming  head. 

"  It's  no  good  to  arrive  at  a  place  before  you've  got  to  it," 
she  declared.  "  And  I  very  certainly  haven't  got  to  the 
second  half  of  the  lesson,  let  alone  the  doxology,  yet.  And 
then  Pm  so  blissfully  content  with  the  first  half,  that  I've  no 
disposition  to  hurry.  No,  dear  Cousin  Katherine,  I  am  afraid 
you  must  resign  yourself  to  put  up  with  me  for  a  little  while 
longer.  Your  foes,  unfortunately,  are  of  your  own  household 
in  this  affair.  Dr.  Knott  has  just  been  holding  forth  to  us — 
Julius  March,  and  Mr.  Quayle,  and  me — and  swearing  me 
over,  not  only  to  stay,  but  to  make  you  eat  and  drink  and 
come  out  of  doors,  and  even  to  go  away  with  me.  Because — 
yes,  in  a  sense  your  Thomas  is  right  with  his  pointing  finger, 
though  he  got  a  bit  muddled,  good  man,  not  being  quite  up-tQ-« 
date,  and  pointed  to  the  wrong  place — ^" 


RAKE'S  PROGRESS  163 

Honoria   left   her  sentence  unfinished.     She  knelt  dowxi  . 
her  tall,  slender  figure,  angular,  more   like  that  of  a  youth, 
than   like  that  of  a  maid,  in  her  spare  mud-stained  habit  and 
coat.     Impulsively    she   put    her   hands   on   Lady   Calmady's 
hips,  laid  her  head  in  her  lap. 

"  Have  you  but  one  blessmg,  oh  !  my  more  than  mother  ?  ** 
she  cried.  "  Do  we  count  for  nothing,  all  the  rest  of  us — •. 
your  household,  and  tenants  rich  and  poor,  and  Julius  the 
faithful,  and  Ludovic  the  bland,  and  that  queer  lump  of  sa- 
gacity and  ugliness,  John  Knott  ?  Why  will  you  kill  your- 
self? Why  will  you  die  and  leave  us  all,  just  because  one 
person  is  perverse  ?  That's  hardly  the  way  to  make  us — who 
love  you — bear  with  and  pity  him  and  welcome  him  home. — 
Oh  !  I  know  I  am  treading  on  dangerous  ground  and  ventur- 
ing to  approach  very  close.  But  I  don't  care — not  a  hang ! 
We're  at  the  end  of  our  patience.  We  want  you,  and  we 
mean  to  have  you  back." 

Honoria  raised  herself,  knelt  bolt  upright,  her  hands  on  the 
arms  of  Lady  Calmady's  chair,  her  expression  full  of  appeal. 

"Be  kind  to  us,  be  kind,"  she  said.  "We  only  ask  you, 
after  all,  to  eat  and  drink — to  let  Clara  take  care  of  you  at 
night,  and  I'll  do  so  by  day. — And  then,  when  you  are 
stronger,  you  must  come  away  with  me,  up  north,  to  Ormiston. 
You  have  not  been  there  for  years,  and  its  gray  towers  are 
rather  splendid  overlooking  that  strong,  uneasy,  northern  sea. 
It  stirs  the  Viking  blood  in  one,  and  makes  that  which  was 
hard  seem  of  less  moment.  Roger  and  Mary  are  there,  too — 
will  be  all  this  summer.  And  you  know  it  refreshed  you  to 
see  them  last  year.  And  if  we  go  pretty  soon  the  boys  will 
be  at  school,  so  they  won't  tire  you  with  their  racketing. 
They're  jolly  monkeys,  though,  in  my  opinion,  Godfrey  wants 
smacking.  He  comes  the  elder-brother  a  lot  too  much  over 
poor  little  Dick. — But  that's  neither  here  nor  there.  Oh  ! 
it's  for  you  to  get  out  of  the  backwater  into  the  stream,  ten 
times  more  than  for  me.     Dearest  physician,  heal  thyself!  " 

But  Katherine,  though  deeply  touched  by  the  loving  ardour 
of  the  younger  woman's  appeal,  and  the  revelation  of  tender- 
ness and  watchful  care,  constantly  surrounding  her,  which  that 
appeal  brought  along  with  it,  could  not  rouse  herself  to  any 
immediate  response.  Sternly,  unremittingly,  since  the  fair 
July  night  when  Richard  had  left  her  nearly  five  years  earlier, 


464  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

she  had  schooled  herself  into  unmurmuring  resignation  and 
calm.  In  the  prosecution  of  such  a  process  there  must  be  loss 
as  well  as  gain.  And  Katherine  had,  in  great  measure, 
atrophied  impulse,  and,  in  eradicating  personal  desire,  had 
come  near  destroying  all  spontaneity  of  emotion.  She  could 
still  give,  but  the  power  of  receiving  was  deadened  in  her. 
And  she  had  come  to  be  jealous  of  the  quiet  which  surrounded 
her.  It  was  her  support  and  solace.  She  asked  little  more 
than  not  to  have  it  broken  up.  She  dreaded  even  affection, 
should  that  strive  to  draw  her  from  the  cloistered  way  of  life. 
The  world,  and  its  many  interests,  had  ceased  to  be  of  any 
moment  to  her.  She  asked  to  be  left  to  contemplation  of 
things  eternal  and  to  the  tragedy  of  her  own  heart.  And  so, 
though  it  was  beautiful  to  know  herself  to  be  thus  cherished 
and  held  in  high  esteem,  that  beauty  came  to  her  as  something 
unrelated,  as  sweet  words  good  to  hear,  yet  spoken  of  some 
person  other  than  herself,  or  of  a  self  she  had  ceased  to  be. 
All  privilege  implies  a  corresponding  obligation,  and  to  the 
meeting  of  fresh  obligations  Katherine  felt  herself  not  only 
unequal,  but  indisposed.  And  so,  she  smiled  now  upon 
Honoria  St.  Quentin,  leaning  back  against  the  rose-silk  and 
muslin-covered  pillows,  with  a  lovely  indulgence,  yet  rather 
hopelessly  unmoved  and  remote. 

"  Ah  !  my  dear,  I  am  beyond  all  wish  to  be  healed  after  the 
fashion  you,  in  your  urgent  loving-kindness,  would  have  me," 
she  said.  "  I  look  forward  to  the  final  healing,  when  my 
many  mistakes  and  shortcomings  shall  be  forgiven  and  the 
smart  of  them  removed.  And  I  am  very  tired.  I  do  not 
think  it  can  be  required  of  me  to  go  back." 

"  I  know,  I  know,"  Honoria  replied. — She  rose  to  her  feet 
and  moved  across  to  the  fireplace,  her  straight  eyebrows  drawn 
together,  her  expression  one  of  perplexity.  "  I  must  seem  a 
brute  for  trying  to  drag  you  back.  When  Dr.  Knott,  and  the 
other  two  men,  asked  me  to  come  and  reason  with  you,  I  was 
on  the  edge  of  refusing.  I  hardly  had  the  heart  to  worry  you. 
And  yet,"  she  added  wistfully,  ''^  after  all,  in  a  way,  it  is  just 
simply  your  own,  dear  fault.  For  if  you  will  be  a  sort  of 
little  kingdom  of  heaven  to  us,  you  see,  it's  inevitable  that, 
when  you  threaten  to  slip  away  from  us,  we  should  play  the 
part  of  the  violent  and  do  our  best  to  take  our  kingdom  hy 
force  and  keep  it  in  spite  or  itself," 


RAKE'S  PROGRESS  465 

"You  overrate  the  heavenliness  of  the  poor  little  kingdom," 
Katherine  said.  "  Its  soil  has  become  barren,  its  proud  cities 
are  laid  waste.  It's  an  unprofitable  place,  believe  me,  dearest 
child.  Let  it  be.  Seek  your  fortune  in  some  kingdom  from 
which  the  glory  has  not  departed  and  whose  motto  is  not 
Ichabodr 

"  Unfortunately,  I  can't  do  that,"  the  younger  woman  an- 
swered. "  I've  explained  why  already.  Where  my  heart  is, 
there,  you  see,  my  kingdom  is  also." 

"  Ah  !  my  dear,  my  dear,"  Katherine  said,  touched,  yet 
somewhat  weary. 

"And  after  all  it  is  not  wholly  for  our  own  sakes  we  make 
this  fight  to  keep  you." — Miss  St.  Quentin's  voice  sank.  She 
spoke  slowly  and  as  though  with  reluctance.  "  We  do  it  for 
the  sake  of  the  person  you  love  best  in  the  world.  I  don't 
say  we  love  him  very  much,  but  that  is  beside  the  mark.  We 
owe  him  a  certain  duty — I,  because  I  am  living  in  his  house, 
the  others  because  they  are  his  friends.  When  he  comes 
home — as  come  he  surely  will — they  all  say  that,  even  while 
they  blame  him — would  it  not  be  an  almost  too  cruel  punish- 
ment if  he  found  Brockhurst  empty  of  your  presence  ?  You 
would  not  wish  that.  It's  not  a  question  of  me,  of  course. 
I  don't  count.  But  you  gone,  no  one — not  even  the  old  serv- 
ants, I  believe — would  stay.  Blame  would  be  turned  into 
something  awkwardly  near  to  hatred." 

Lady  Calmady's  serenity  did  not  desert  her,  but  a  touch  of 
her  old  loftiness  of  manner  was  apparent.  And  Miss  St. 
Quentin  was  very  glad.  Anything,  even  anger,  would  be 
welcome  if  it  dissipated  that  unnatural,  paralysing  calm. 

"  You  forget  Julius,  I  think,"  she  said.  "  He  will  be  faith- 
ful to  the  very  end,  faithful  unto  death.  And  so  will  another 
friend  of  happier  days,  poor,  blind,  old  Camp." 

A  sudden  inspiration  came  to  Honoria  St.  Quentin. 

"You  must  only  count  on  Julius,  I  am  afraid.  Cousin 
Katherine — not  on  Camp." 

And  to  her  immense  relief  she  perceived  Lady  Calmady's 
serenity  give  a  little.  It  was  as  though  she  came  nearer.  Her 
sweet  face  was  troubled,  her  eyes  full  of  questioning. 

"  Camp  grew  a  little  too  tired  of  waiting  about  three  weeks 
ago.     You  did  not  ask  for  him " 

"  Didn't  I  ?  "  Katherine  said,  smitten  by  self-reproach. 


466  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

"  Never  once — and  so  we  did  not  tell  you,  fearing  to  dis- 
tress you." 

Miss  St.  Quentin  came  over  and  sat  down  on  the  end  of 
the  sofa  again.  She  rested  her  hands  on  her  knees.  Her  feet 
were  rather  far  apart.  She  fixed  her  eyes  upon  the  small 
prophets  and  patriarchs  anticking  upon  the  hearth. 

"  But  it  wasn't  really  so  very  bad,'*  she  said  reflectively, 
"  And  we  did  all  we  could  to  smooth  his  passage,  poor,  dear 
beast,  to  the  place  where  all  good  dogs  go.  We  had  the  vet 
out  from  Westchurch  two  or  three  times,  but  there  was 
nothing  much  he  could  do.  And  I  thought  him  a  bit  rough. 
Nervousness,  I  fancy.  You  see  the  dog  did  not  like  being 
handled  by  a  stranger,  and  made  it  rather  hot  for  him  once  or 
twice.  I  could  not  let  him  be  worried,  poor  old  man,  and  so 
Julius  March,  and  Winter,  and  I,  took  turn  and  turn  about 
with  him." 

"  Where  did  he  die  ? " 

"  In  the  Gun-Room,  on  the  tiger-skin." — Honoria  did  not 
look  round.  Her  voice  grew  perceptibly  husky.  "  Chifney 
and  I  sat  up  with  him  that  last  night." 

"  You  and  Chifney  ?  "  Lady  Calmady  exclaimed,  almost  in 
protest. 

"Yes.  Of  course  the  men  would  have  been  as  kind  as 
kind  could  be.  Only  I  had  a  feeling  you  would  be  glad  to 
know  I  was  there,  later,  when  we  told  you.  You  see  Chif- 
ney's  as  good  as  any  vet,  and  I  had  to  have  somebody.  The 
dog  was  rather  queer.  I  did  not  quite  know  how  to  manage 
him  alone." 

Lady  Calmady  put  out  her  hand.  Honoria  took  it  silently, 
and  fell  to  stroking  it  once  more.  It  was  a  declaration  of 
peace,  she  felt,  on  the  part  of  the  obstinate  well-beloved — 
possibly  a  declaration  of  something  over  and  above  peace. 

"Winter  saw  to  our  creature  comforts,"  the  young  lady 
continued.  "  Oh,  we  weren't  starved,  I  promise  you  !  And 
Chifney  was  excellent  company." 

She  hesitated  a  moment. 

"  He  told  me  endless  yarns  about  horses — about  Doncaster 
and  Newmarket,  and  Goodwood.  I  was  greatly  flattered  at 
being  regarded  sufficiently  of  the  equestrian  order  to  hear  all 
that. — And  he  told  me  stories  about  Richard,  when  he  was 
quite  ^  little  boy — and  about  his  father  al$Q," 


RAKE'S  PROGRESS  467 

Honoria  had  a  conviction  the  tears  were  running 
down  Lady  Calmady's  cheeks,  but  she  would  not  look 
round.  She  only  stroked  the  hand  she  held  softly,  and  talked 
on. 

"  They  were  fine,"  she  said,  "  some  of  those  stories.  I  am 
glad  to  have  heard  them.  They  went  home  to  me.  When 
all  is  said  and  done,  there  is  nothing  like  breeding  and  pluck, 
and  the  courtesy  which  goes  along  with  them.  But  after 
midnight  Camp  grew  very  restless.  He  had  his  blanket  in  the 
big  armchair — you  know  the  one  I  mean — as  usual.  But  he 
wouldn't  stay  there.  We  had  to  lift  him  down.  You  see 
his  hindquarters  were  paralysed,  and  he  couldn't  help  himself 
much.  It  was  pathetic.  I  can't  forget  the  asking  look  in  his 
half-blind  eyes.  But  we  couldn't  make  out  what  he  wanted. 
At  last  he  dragged  himself  as  far  as  the  door,  and  we  set  it 
open  and  watched  him,  poor,  dear  beast.  He  got  across  the 
lobby  to  the  bottom  of  the  little  staircase " 

The  speaker's  breath  caught. 

"  Then  we  made  out  what  it  was.  He  wanted  to  get  up 
here,  to  come  to  you. — Well,  I  could  understand  that !  I 
should  want  just  that  myself,  shall  want  it,  when  it  comes  to 
the  last.  He  whimpered  when  Chifney  carried  him  back  into 
the  Gun-Room." 

Honoria  turned  her  head  and  looked  Lady  Calmady  in  the 
face.  Her  own  was  more  than  commonly  white  and  very 
gentle  in  expression. 

"  He  died  in  the  gray  of  the  morning,  with  his  great  head 
on  my  lap.  I  fancy  it  eased  him  to  have  something  human, 
and — rather  pitiful — close  against  him.  Julius  had  just  come 
in  to  see  how  we  were  getting  on.  I  won't  declare  he  did  not 
say  a  prayer — I  think  he  did.  But  I  wasn't  quite  as  steady 
as  I  might  have  been  just  then." 

She  turned  her  head,  looking  back  at  the  figures  upon  the 
hearth.  She  was  satisfied.  Lady  Calmady's  long-sustained 
calm  had  given  way,  and  she  wept. 

'^  We  buried  him,  in  his  blanket,  under  the  big  Portugal- 
laurel,  where  the  nightingale  sings,  at  the  corner  of  the  troco- 
ground,  close  to  Camp  the  First  and  Old  Camp.  The  upper 
servants  came,  and  Chaplin  and  Hariburt  from  the  house- 
stables,  and  Chifney  and  the  head-lad — and  some  of  the 
gardeners.     Poor,  old  Wenham  drove  up  in  his  donkey-chair 


468  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

from  the  west  lodge.     Julius  was  there,  of  course.     We  did 

all  things  decently  and  in  order." 

Honoria's  voice  ceased.  She  sat  stroking  the  dear  hand  she 
held  and  smiling  to  herself,  notwithstanding  a  chokiness  in 
her  throat,  for  she  had  a  comfortable  belief  the  situation  was 
saved. 

Then  Clara  entered,  prepared  to  encounter  remonstrance^ 
bearing  a  tray. 

"It's  all  right,  Clara,"  Miss  St.  Quentin  said.  "Lady 
Calmady  is  quite  ready  for  something  to  eat.  Fve  been  tell- 
ing her  about  Camp." 

And  Katherine,  sitting  upright,  with  great  docility  and  a 
certain  gentle  shame,  accepted  food  and  drink. 

"Since  you  wish  it,  dearest,"  she  said,  "and  since  Julius 
must  not  be  left  alone  in  a  quite  empty  house." 

"  Our  kingdom  of  heaven  stays  with  us  then  ?  "  Honoria 
exclaimed  joyously. 

"  Such  as  it  is — poor  thing — it  will  do  its  best  to  stay.  I 
thought  I  had  cried  my  eyes  dry  forever,  long  ago.  But  it 
seems  not.     You  and  Camp  have  broken  up  the  drought." 

"  I  have  not  hurt  you  ?  "  Honoria  said,  in  sudden  penitence. 

"No,  no — you  have  given  me  relief.  I  was  ceasing  to  be 
human.  The  blessed  Thomas  was  right — I  grew  very 
selfish." 

"  But  you're  not  displeased  with  me  ?"  Honoria  insisted. 
Lady  Calmady's  playfulness  had  returned,  but  with  a  new 
complexion. 

"Ah!  it  is  a  little  soon  to  ask  that!  "  she  said.  "Still  I 
will  go  north  with  you  a  fortnight  hence — go  to  Ormiston. 
And  by  then,  perhaps,  you  may  be  forgiven.  Open  the  case- 
ment, dearest,  and  let  in  the  wind.  The  air  of  this  room  is 
curiously  dead.  Give  my  love  to  Julius  and  Ludovic.  Tell 
them  I  will  come  mto  the  Chapel-Room  after  dinner  to-night. 
— What — my  child,  are  you  so  very  glad  ? — Kiss  me. — God 
keep  you. — Now  I  will  rest." 


RAKE'S  PROGRESS  469 


CHAPTER  VI 

IN   WHICH    M.    PAUL   DESTOURNELLE    HAS    THE    BAD   TASTE    TO 
THREATEN    TO    UPSET    THE    APPLE-CART 

TLTELEN  DE  VALLORBES  rose  from  her  knees  and 
slipped  out  from  under  the  greasy  and  frayed  half- 
curtain  of  the  confessional  box.  The  atmosphere  of  that 
penitential  spot  had  been  such  as  to  make  her  feel  faint  and 
dizzy.  She  needed  to  recover  herself.  And  so  she  stood,  for  a 
minute  or  more,  in  the  clear,  cool  brightness  of  the  nave  of  the 
great  basilica,  her  highly-civilised  figure  covered  by  a  chequer- 
work  of  morning  sunshine  streaming  dow^n  through  the  round- 
headed  window^s  of  the  lofty  clere-storey.  As  the  sense  of 
physical  discomfort  left  her  she  instinctively  arranged  her 
veil,  and  adjusted  her  bracelets  over  the  wrists  of  her  long 
gloves.  Yet,  notwithstanding  this  trivial  and  mundane  occu- 
pation, her  countenance  retained  an  expression  of  devout 
circumspection,  of  the  relief  of  one  who  has  accomplished  a 
serious  and  somewhat  distasteful  duty.  Her  sensations  were 
increasingly  agreeable.  She  had  rid  herself  of  an  oppressive 
burden.  She  was  at  peace  with  herself  and  with — almost — all 
man  and  womankind. 

Yet,  it  must  be  admitted,  the  measure  had  been  mainly  pre- 
cautionary. Helen  had  gone  to  confession,  on  the  present 
occasion,  in  much  the  same  spirit  as  an  experienced  traveler 
visits  his  dentist  before  starting  on  a  protracted  journey.  She 
regarded  it  as  a  disagreeable,  but  politic,  insurance  against 
possible  accident.  Her  distaste  had  been  increased  by  the 
fact  that  there  really  were  some  rather  risky  matters  to  be  con- 
fessed. She  had  even  feared  a  course  of  penance  might  have 
been  enforced  before  the  granting  of  absolution — this  cer- 
tainly would  have  been  the  case  had  she  been  dealing  with 
that  firm  disciplinarian  and  very  astute  man  of  the  world,  the 
Jesuit  father  who  acted  as  her  spiritual  adviser  in  Paris.  But 
here  in   Naples,   happily,  it  was   different.     The   fat,  sleepy. 


470  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

easy-going,  old  canon — whose  person  exuded  so  strong  an 
odour  of  snufF  that,  at  the  solemnest  moment  of  the  confiteor^ 
she  had  been  unable  to  suppress  a  convulsive  sneeze — asked 
her  but  few  inconvenient  questions.  Pretty  fine-ladies  will 
get  into  little  difficulties  of  this  nature.  He  had  listened  to 
very  much  the  same  story  not  infrequently  before,  and  took 
the  position  amiably,  almost  humorously,  for  granted.  It 
was  very  wicked,  a  deadly  sin,  but  the  flesh — specially  such 
delicately  bred,  delicately  ^^di^  feminine  flesh — is  admittedly 
weak,  and  the  wiles  of  Satan  are  many.  Is  it  not  an  historic 
fact  that  our  first  mother  did  not  escape  ? — Was  Helen's  re- 
pentance sincere,  that  was  the  point  ?  And  of  that  Helen 
could  honestly  assure  him  there  was  no  smallest  doubt.  In- 
deed, at  this  moment,  she  abhorred,  not  only  her  sin,  but  her 
co-sinner,  in  the  liveliest  and  most  comprehensive  manner. 
Return  to  him  ?  Sooner  the  dog  return  to  its  vomit !  She 
recognised  the  iniquity,  the  shame,  the  detestable  folly,  of  her 
late  proceedings  far  too  clearly.  Temptation  in  that  direction 
had  ceased  to  be  possible. 

Then  followed  the  mysterious  and  merciful  words  of  abso•^ 
lution.  And  Helen  rose  from  her  knees  and  slipped  out  from 
beneath  the  frayed  and  greasy  curtain  a  free  woman,  the  guilt 
of  her  adultery  wiped  ofF  by  those  awful  words,  as,  with  a  wet 
cloth,  one  would  wipe  writing  off  a  slate  leaving  the  surface 
of  it  clean  in  every  part.  Precisely  how  far  she  literally  be- 
lieved in  the  efficacy  of  that  most  solemn  rite  she  would  not 
have  found  it  easy  to  declare.  Scepticism  warred  with  expe- 
diency. But  that  appeared  to  her  beside  the  mark.  It  was 
really  none  of  her  business.  Let  her  teachers  look  to  all  that. 
To  her  it  was  sufficient  that  she  could  regard  it  from  the  prac- 
tical standpoint  of  an  insurance  against  possible  accident — the 
accident  of  sin  proving  actually  sinful  and  actually  punishable 
by  a  narrow-minded  deity,  the  accident  of  the  veritable  exis- 
tence of  heaven  and  hell,  and  of  Holy  Church  veritably  hav- 
ing the  keys  of  both  these  in  her  keeping,  the  accident — more 
immediately  probable  and  consequently  worth  guarding  against 
— that,  during  wakeful  hours,  some  night,  the  half-forgotten 
lessons  of  the  convent  school  would  come  back  on  her,  and,  as 
did  sometimes  happen,  would  prove  too  much  for  her  usually 
victorious  audacity. 

But,  it  should  be  added  that  another  and  more  creditable  ii\- 


RAKF/S  PROGRESS  471 

stinct  did  much  to  dictate  Madame  de  Vallorbes'  action  at  this 
juncture.  As  the  days  went  by  the  attraction  exercised  over 
her  by  Richard  Calmady  suffered  increase  rather  than  diminu- 
tion. And  this  attraction  affected  her  morally,  producing  in 
her  modesties,  reticencies  of  speech,  even  of  thought,  and 
prickings  of  unflattering  self-criticism  unknown  to  her  hereto- 
fore. Her  ultimate  purpose  might  not  be  virtuous.  But  un- 
deniably, such  is  the  complexity — not  to  say  hypocrisy — of 
the  human  heart,  the  prosecution  of  that  purpose  developed  in 
her  a  surprising  sensibility  of  conscience.  Many  episodes  in 
her  career,  hitherto  regarded  as  entertaining,  she  ceased  to 
view  with  toleration,  let  alone  complacency.  The  remem- 
brance of  them  made  her  nervous.  What  if  Richard  came  to 
hear  of  them  ?  The  effect  might  be  disastrous.  Not  that  he 
was  any  saint,  but  that  she  perceived  that,  with  the  fine  incon- 
sistency common  to  most  well-bred  Englishmen,  he  demanded 
from  the  women  of  his  family  quite  other  standards  of  conduct 
to  those  which  he  himself  obeyed.  Other  wome.  might  do 
as  they  pleased.  Their  lapses  from  the  stricter  social  code 
were  no  concern  of  his.  He  might,  indeed,  be  not  wholly 
averse  to  profiting  by  such  lapses.  But  in  respect  of  the 
women  of  his  own  rank  and  blood  the  case  was  quite  other- 
wise. He  was  alarmingly  capable  of  disgust.  And,  not  a  lit- 
tle to  her  own  surprise,  fear  of  provoking,  however  slightly, 
that  disgust  had  become  a  reigning  power  with  her.  Never 
had  she  felt  as  she  now  felt.  Her  own  sensations  at  once 
captivated  and  astonished  her.  This  had  ceased  to  be  an  ad- 
venture dictated  by  merry  devilry,  undertaken  out  of  light- 
ness of  heart,  inspired  by  a  mischievous  desire  to  see  dust 
whirl  and  straws  fly,  or  undertaken  even  out  of  necessity  to 
support  self-satisfaction  by  ranging  herself  with  cynical  au- 
dacity on  the  side  of  the  Eternal  Laughter.  This  was  serious. 
It  was  desperate — the  crisis,  as  she  told  herself,  of  her  life  and 
fate.  The  result  was  singular.  Never  had  she  been  more 
vividly,  more  electrically,  alive.  Never  had  she  been  more 
diffident  and  self-distrustful. 

And  this  complexity  of  sensation  served  to  press  home  on 
her  the  high  desirability  of  insurance  against  accident,  of  wash- 
ing clean,  as  far  as  might  be  possible,  the  surface  of  the  slate. 
So  it  followed  that  now,  standing  in  the  chequer-work  of  sun- 
shine within  the  great  basilica,  self-congratulation  awoke  in 


47^  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

her.  The  lately  concluded  ceremony,  some  of  the  details  of 
which  had  really  been  most  distasteful,  might  or  might  not  be 
of  vital  efficacy,  but,  in  any  case,  she  had  courageously  done 
her  part.  Therefore,  if  Holy  Church  spoke  truly,  her  first 
innocence  was  restored.  Helen  hugged  the  idea  with  almost 
childish  satisfaction.  Now  she  could  go  back  to  the  Villa 
Vallorbes  in  peace,  and  take  what  measure 

She  left  the  sentence  unfinished.  Even  in  thought  it  is 
often  an  error  to  define.  Let  the  future  and  her  intentions  re- 
garding it  remain  in  the  vague  !  She  signed  to  Zelie  Forestier 
— seated  on  the  steps  of  a  side-chapel,  yellow-paper-covered 
novel  in  hand — to  follow  her.  And,  after  making  a  genuflex- 
ion before  the  altar  of  Our  Lady  of  the  Immaculate  Concep- 
tion, gathered  up  her  turquoise-coloured  skirts — the  yellow-tufa 
quarries  were  not  superabundantly  clean — and  pursued  her  way 
towards  the  great  main  door.  The  benevolent  priest,  charmed 
by  her  grace  of  movement,  watched  her  from  his  place  in  the 
confessional,  although  another  penitent  now  kneeled  within  the 
greasy  curtain.  Verily  the  delinquencies  of  so  delectable  a 
piece  of  womanhood  were  easily  comprehensible!  Neither 
God  nor  man,  in  such  a  case,  would  be  extreme  to  mark  what 
was  done  amiss. — Moreover,  had  she  not  promised  generous 
gifts  alike  to  church  and  poor  ?  The  sin  which  in  an  ugly 
woman  is  clearly  mortal,  in  a  pretty  one  becomes  little  more 
than  venial.  Making  which  reflection  a  kindly,  fat  chuckle 
shook  his  big  paunch,  and,  crossing  himself,  he  turned  his  at- 
tention to  the  voice  murmuring  from  behind  the  wooden  lat- 
tice at  his  side. 

Yet  it  would  appear  that  abstract  justice  judged  less  leniently 
of  the  position.  For,  passing  out  on  to  the  portico — about 
the  base  of  whose  enormous  columns  half-naked  beggars  clus- 
tered, exposing  sores  and  mutilations,  shrilly  clamouring  for 
alms — the  dazzling  glare  of  the  empty,  sun-scorched  piazza 
behind  him,  Helen  came  face  to  face  with  no  less  a  personage 
than  M.  Paul  Destournelle. 

It  was  as  though  some  one  had  struck  her.  The  scene  reeled 
before  her  eyes.  Then  her  temper  rose  as  in  resentment  of 
insult.  To  avoid  all  chance  of  such  a  meeting  she  had  se- 
lected this  church  in  an  unfashionable  quarter  of  the  town. 
Here,  at  least,  she  had  reckoned  herself  safe  from  molestation. 
And,  that  precisely  in  the  hour  of  peace,  the  hour  of  politic 


RAKE'S  PROGRESS  473 

insurance  against  accident,  this  accident  of  all  others  should 
befall  her,  was  maddening  !  But  anger  did  not  lessen  her  per- 
spicacity. How  to  inflict  the  maximum  of  discomfort  upon 
M.  Destournelle  with  the  minimum  of  risk  to  herself  was  the 
question.  An  interview  was  inevitable.  She  wanted,  very 
certainly,  to  get  her  claws  into  him,  but,  for  safety's  sake,  that 
should  be  done  not  in  attack,  but  in  defense.  Therefore  he 
should  speak  first,  and  in  his  words,  whatever  those  words 
might  be,  she  promised  herself  to  discover  legitimate  cause 
of  offense.  So,  leisurely,  and  with  studied  ignorance  of  his 
presence,  she  flung  largesse  of  centissimi  to  right  and  left,  and, 
while  the  chorus  of  blessing  and  entreaty  was  yet  loud,  walked 
calmly  past  M.  Destournelle  down  the  wide,  shallow  steps, 
from  the  solid  shadow  of  the  portico  to  the  burning  sun-glare 
of  the  piazza. 

The  young  man's  countenance  went  livid. 

"  Do  you  dare  to  pretend  not  to  recognise  me  ?  *'  he  literally 
gasped. 

"  On  the  contrary  I  recognise  you  perfectly." 

"  I  have  written  to  you  repeatedly." 

"  You  have — written  to  me  with  a  ridiculous  and  odious 
persistence." 

Madame  de  Vallorbes  picked  her  steps.  The  pavement  was 
uneven,  the  heat  great.  Destournelle's  hands  twitched  with 
agitation,  yet  he  contrived  not  only  to  replace  his  Panama  hat, 
but  opened  his  white  umbrella  as  a  precaution  against  sun- 
stroke. And  this  diverted,  even  while  exasperating,  Helen. 
Measures  to  ensure  personal  safety  were  so  characteristic  of 
Destournelle. 

"  And  with  what  fault,  I  ask  you,  can  you  reproach  me, 
save  that  of  a  too  absorbing,  a  too  generous,  adoration  ?  " 

"  That  fault  in  itself  is  very  sufficient." 

*'  Do  you  not  reckon,  then,  in  any  degree,  with  the  crime  you 
are  in  process  of  committing  ?  Have  you  no  sense  of  gratitude, 
of  obligation  ?  Have  you  no  regret  for  your  own  loss  in  leav- 
ing me  ?  " 

Helen  drew  aside  to  let  a  herd  of  goats  pass.  They  jostled 
one  another  impudently,  carrying  their  inquisitive  heads  and 
short  tails  erect,  at  right  angles  to  the  horizontal  line  of  their 
narrow  backs.  They  bleated,  as  in  impish  mischief.  Their 
little  beards  wagged.    Their  little  hoofs  pattered  on  the  stone| 


474  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

and  the  musky  odour  of  them  hung  in  the  burning  ain 
Madame  de  Vallorbes  put  her  handkerchief  up  to  her  face, 
and  over  the  edge  of  it  she  contemplated  Paul  Destournelle. 
Every  detail  of  his  appearance  was  not  only  familiar,  but  as- 
sociated in  her  mind  with  some  incident  of  his  and  her  com- 
mon past.  Now  the  said  details  asserted  themselves,  so  it 
seemed  to  her,  with  an  impertinence  of  premeditated  provoca- 
tion.— The  high,  domed  skull,  the  smooth,  prematurely-thin 
hair  parted  in  the  middle  and  waved  over  the  ears.  The 
slightly  raised  eyebrows,  and  fatigued,  red-lidded,  and  vain, 
though  handsome  eyes.  The  straight,  thin  nose,  and  winged, 
open  nostrils,  so  perpetually  a-quiver.  The  soft,  sparse, 
forked  beard  which  closely  followed  the  line  of  the  lower  jaw 
and  pointed  chin.  The  moustache,  lightly  shading  the  upper 
lip,  while  wholly  exposing  the  fretful  and  rather  sensuous 
mouth.  The  long,  effeminate,  and  restless  hands.  The  tall, 
slight  figure.  The  clothes,  of  a  material  and  pattern  fondly 
supposed  by  their  wearer  to  present  the  last  word  of  English 
fashion  in  relation  to  foreign  travel,  the  colour  of  them  ac- 
curately matched  to  the  pale,  brown  hair  and  beard. — So  much 
for  the  detail  of  the  young  man's  appearance.  As  a  whole, 
that  appearance  was  elegant  as  only  French  youth  ventures  to 
be  elegant.  Refinement  enveloped  Paul  Destournelle — refine- 
ment, over- sensitised  and  under-vitalised,  as  that  of  a  rare 
exotic  forced  into  precocious  blossoming  by  application  of 
some  artificial  horticultural  process.  And  all  this — elaborately 
effective  and  seductive  as  long  as  one  should  happen  to  think 
so,  elaborately  nauseous  when  one  had  ceased  so  to  think — 
had  long  b'sen  familiar  to  Helen  to  the  point  of  satiety.  She 
turned  wicked,  satiety  transmuting  itself  into  active  vindic- 
tiveness.  How  gladly  would  she  have  torn  this  emasculated 
creature  limb  from  limb,  and  flung  the  lot  of  it  among  the  ref- 
use of  the  Neapolitan  gutter ! 

But,  from  beneath  the  shade  of  his  umbrella,  the  young 
man  recommenced  his  plaint. 

"  It  is  inconceivable  that,  knowing  my  cruel  capacity  for 
suffering,  you  should  be  indifferent  to  my  present  situation,'* 
he  asserted,  half  violently,  half  fretfully.  "  The  whole  range 
of  history  would  fail  to  offer  a  case  of  parallel  callousness. 
You,  whose  personality  has  penetrated  the  recesses  of  my  be- 
ing 1     You,  who  arc  acquainted  with  the  infinite  intricacy  of 


RAKE'S  PROGRESS  475 

my  mental  and  emotional  organisation  !  A  touch  will  en- 
danger the  harmony  of  that  exquisite  mechanism.  The  in- 
terpenetration  of  the  component  parts  of  my  being  is  too  com- 
plete. I  exist,  I  receive  sensations,  I  suffer,  I  rejoice,  as  a 
whole.  And  this  lays  me  open  to  universal,  to  incalculable, 
pain.  Now  my  nerves  are  shattered — intellectual,  moral, 
physical  anguish  permeate  in  every  part.  1  rally  my  self- 
reverence,  my  nobility  of  soul.  I  make  efforts.  By  day  I 
visit  spots  of  natural  beauty  and  objects  of  art.  But  these 
refuse  to  gratify  me.  My  thought  is  too  turgid  to  receive  the 
impress  of  them.  Concentration  is  impossible  to  me. 
Feverish  agitation  perverts  my  imagination.  My  ideas  are 
fugitive.  I  endure  a  chronic  delirium.  This  by.  day,"  he 
extended  one  hand  with  a  despairing  gesture,  "but  by 
night " 

"  Oh,  I  implore  you,"  Helen  interrupted,  "  spare  me  the 
description  of  your  nights !  The  subject  is  a  hardly  modest 
one.  And  then,  at  various  times,  I  have  already  heard  so  very 
much  about  them,  those  nights  !  " 

Calmly  she  resumed  her  walk.  The  amazing  vanity  of  the 
young  man's  speech  appeased  her,  in  a  measure,  since  it  fed 
her  contempt.  Let  him  sink  himself  beyond  all  hope  of  re- 
covery, that  was  best.  Let  him  go  down,  down,  in  exposition 
of  fatuous  self-conceit.  When  he  was  low  enough,  then  she 
would  kick  him  !  Meanwhile  her  eyes,  ever  greedy  of  inci- 
dent and  colour,  registered  the  scene  immediately  submitted  to 
them.  In  the  centre  of  the  piazza,  women — saffron  and 
poppy-coloured  handkerchiefs  tied  round  their  dark  heads — 
washed,  with  a  fine  impartiality,  soiled  linen  and  vegetables  in 
an  iron  trough,  grated  for  a  third  of  its  length,  before  a  foun- 
tain of  debased  and  flamboyant  design.  Their  voices  were 
alternately  shrill  and  gutteral.  It  was  perhaps  as  well  not  to 
understand  too  clearly  all  which  they  said.  On  the  left  came 
a  break  in  the  high,  painted  house-fronts,  off"  which  in  places 
the  plaster  scaled,  and  from  the  windows  of  which  protruded 
miscellaneous  samples  of  wearing  apparel  and  bedding  solicit- 
ing much-needed  purification  by  means  of  air  and  light.  In 
the  said  break  was  a  low  wall  where  coarse  plants  rooted,  and 
atop  of  which  lay  some  half-dozen  ragged  youths,  outstretched 
upon  their  stomachs,  playing  cards.  The  least  decrepit  of  the 
beggars,  armed    with   Helen's  largesse  of   copper  coin,  had 


476  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

joined  them  from  beneath  the  portico.  Gambling,  seasoned 
by  shouts,  imprecations,  blows,  grew  fast  and  furious.  In  the 
steep  roadway  on  the  right  a  dray,  loaded  with  barrels,  creaked 
and  jolted  upward.  The  wheels  of  it  were  solid  discs  of 
wood.  The  great,  mild-eyed,  cream-coloured  oxen  strained, 
with  slowly  swinging  heads,  under  the  heavy  yoke.  Scarlet, 
woolen  bands  and  tassels  adorned  their  broad  foreheads  and 
wide-sweeping,  black-tipped  horns,  and  here  and  there  a  scar- 
let drop  their  flanks,  where  the  goad  had  pricked  them  too 
shrewdly.  And  upon  it  all  the  unrelenting  southern  sun 
looked  down,  and  Helen  de  Vallorbes'  unrelenting  eyes  looked 
forth.  One  of  those  quick  realisations  of  the  inexhaustible 
excitement  of  living  came  to  her.  She  looked  at  the  elegant 
young  man  walking  beside  her,  apprised,  measured,  him.  She 
thought  of  Richard  Calmady,  self-imprisoned  in  the  luxurious 
villa,  and  of  the  possibilities  of  her,  so  far  platonic,  relation  to 
him.  She  glanced  down  at  her  own  rustling  skirts  and 
daintily-shod  feet  traveling  over  the  hot  stones,  then  at  the 
noisy  gamblers,  then  at  the  women  washing,  with  that  con- 
summate disregard  of  sanitation,  food  and  raiment  together  in 
the  rusty  iron  trough  by  the  fountain.  The  violent  contrasts, 
the  violent  lights  and  shadows,  the  violent  diversities  of  pur- 
pose and  emotion,  of  rank,  of  health,  of  fortune  and  mis- 
fortune, went  to  her  head.  Whatever  the  risks  or  dangers  that 
excitement  remained  inexhaustible.  Nay,  those  very  dangers 
and  risks  ministered  to  its  perpetual  upflowing.  It  struck  her 
she  had  been  over-scrupulous,  weakly  conscientious,  in  ma- 
king confession  and  seeking  absolution.  Such  timid  moralities 
do  not  really  shape  destiny,  control  or  determine  human  fate. 
The  shouting,  fighting  youths  there,  with  their  filthy  pack  of 
cards  and  few  centissimi^  sprawling  in  the  unstinted  sunshine, 
were  nearer  the  essential  truth.  They  were  the  profound,  be- 
cause the  practical  philosophers  !  Therefore  let  us  gamble, 
gamble,  gamble,  be  the  stake  small  or  great,  as  long  as  the 
merest  flicker  of  life,  or  fraction  of  uttermost  farthing,  is  left ! 
And  so,  when  Destournelle  took  up  his  lament  again,  she  listened 
to  him,  for  the  moment,  with  remarkable  lightness  of  heart. 

"  I  appeal  to  you  in  the  name  of  my  as  yet  unwritten 
poems,  my  masterpieces  for  which  France,  for  which  the 
whole  brotherhood  of  letters,  so  anxiously  waits,  to  put  a 
term  to  this  appalling  chastisement !  " 


RAKE'S  PROGRESS  477 

"  Delicious  !  "  said  Helen,  under  her  breath. 

"  Your  classicism  is  the  natural  complement  of  my 
mediaevalism.  The  elasticity,  the  concreteness,  of  your  tem- 
perament fertilised  the  too-brooding  introspectiveness  of  my 
own.  It  lightened  the  reverence  which  I  experience  in  the 
contemplation  of  my  own  nature.  It  induced  in  me  the  hint 
of  frivolity  which  is  necessary  to  procure  action.  Our  union 
was  as  that  of  high-noon  and  impenetrable  night.  I  antici- 
pated extraordinary  consequences." 

"Marriage  of  a  butterfly  and  a  bat?  Yes,  the  progeny 
should  be  surprising,  little  animals  certainly,*'  commented 
Madame  de  Vallorbes. 

"In  deserting  me  you  have  rendered  me  impotent.  That 
is  a  crime.     It  is  an  atrocity.     You  assassinate  my  genius." 

"  Then,  indeed,  I  have  reason  to  congratulate  myself  on  my 
ingenuity,"  she  returned,  "  since  I  succeeded  in  the  assassina- 
tion of  the  non-existent !  " 

"  You,  who  have  praised  it  a  thousand  times — you  deny  the 
existence  of  my  genius  ? "  almost  shrieked  M.  Destournelle. 
He  was  very  much  in  earnest,  and  in  a  very  sorry  case.  His 
limbs  twitched.  He  appeared  on  the  verge  of  an  hysteric 
seizure.  To  plague  him  thus  was  a  charmingly  pretty  sport, 
but  one  safest  carried  on  with  closed  doors — not  in  so  public 
a  spot. 

"  I  do  not  deny  the  existence  of  anything,  save  your  right 
to  make  a  scene  and  render  me  ridiculous  as  you  repeatedly 
did  at  Pisa."  \ 

"  Then  you  must  return  to  me." 

«  Oh  !  la,  la  !  "  cried  Helen. 

"  That  you  should  leave  me  and  live  in  your  cousin's  house 
constitutes  an  intolerable  insult." 

"And  where,  pray,  would  you  have  me  live?"  she  re- 
torted, her  temper  rising,  to  the  detriment  of  diplomacy. 
"  In  the  street  ?  " 

"  It  appears  to  me  the  two  localities  are  synonymous — 
morally." 

Madame  de  Vallorbes  drew  up.  Rage  almost  choked  her. 
M.  Destournelle's  words  stung  the  more  fiercely  because  the 
insinuation  they  contained  was  not  justified  by  fact.  They 
brought  home  to  her  her  non-success  in  a  certain  direction. 
They  called  up  visions  of  that  unknown  rival,  to  whom — ah, 


478  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

how  she  hated  the  woman  ! — Richard  Calmady's  affections 
were,  as  she  feared,  still  wholly  given.  That  her  relation  to 
him  was  innocent,  filled  her  with  humiliation.  First  she 
turned  to  Zelie  Forestier,  who  had  followed  at  a  discreet  dis- 
tance across  the  piazza. 

"  Go  on,'*  she  said,  "  down  the  street.  Find  a  cab,  a  clean 
one.     Wait  in  it  for  me  at  the  bottom  of  the  hill." 

Then  she  turned  upon  JVI.  Destournelle. 

"Your  mind  is  so  corrupt  that  you  cannot  conceive  of  an 
honest  friendship,  even  between  near  relations.  You  fill  me 
with  repulsion — I  measured  the  depth  of  your  degeneracy  at 
Pisa.  That  is  why  I  left  you.  I  wanted  to  breathe  in  an  un- 
infected atmosphere.  My  cousin  is  a  person  of  remarkable 
intellectual  powers,  of  chivalrous  ideals,  and  of  superior  char- 
acter. He  has  had  great  troubles.  He  is  far  from  well.  I 
am  watching  over  and  nursing  him.'* 

The  last  statement  trenched  boldly  on  fiction.  As  she 
made  it  Madame  de  Vallorbes  moved  forward,  intending  to 
follow  the  retreating  Zelie  down  the  steep,  narrow  street. 
For  a  minute  M.  Destournelle  paused  to  recollect  his  ideas. 
Then  he  went  quickly  after  her. 

"Stay,  I  implore  you,"  he  said.  "Yes,  I  own  at  Pisa  I 
lost  myself.  The  agitation  of  composition  was  too  much  for 
me.  My  mind  seethed  with  ideas.  I  became  irritable.  I 
comprehend  I  was  in  fault.  But  it  is  so  easy  to  recommence, 
and  to  range  oneself.  I  accept  your  assurances  regarding  your 
cousin.  It  is  all  so  simple.  You  shall  not  return  to  me. 
You  shall  continue  your  admirable  work.  But  I  will  return 
to  you.  I  will  join  you  at  the  villa.  My  society  cannot  fail 
to  be  of  pleasure  to  your  cousin,  if  he  is  such  a  person  as  you 
describe.  In  a  mnieu  removed  from  care  and  trivialities  I 
will  continue  my  poem.  I  may  even  dedicate  it  to  your 
cousin.  I  may  make  his  name  immortal.  If  he  is  a  person 
of  taste  and  ideals,  he  cannot  fail  to  appreciate  so  magnificent 
a  compliment.  You  will  place  this  before  him.  You  will 
explain  to  him  how  necessary  to  me  is  your  presence.  He 
will  be  glad  to  cooperate  in  procuring  it  for  me.  He  will 
understand  that  in  making  these  propositions  1  offer  him  a 
unique  opportunity,  I  behave  towards  him  with  signal  gener- 
osity. And  if,  at  first,  the  intrusion  of  a  stranger  into  his 
household  should   appear  mconvenient,  let  him  but  pause  a 


RAKE'S  PROGRESS  479 

little.  He  will  find  his  reward  in  the  development  of  my 
genius  and  in  the  spectacle  of  our  mutual  felicity." 

Destournelle  spoke  with  great  rapidity.  The  street  which 
they  had  now  entered,  from  the  far  end  of  the  piazza,  was 
narrow.  It  was  encumbered  by  a  string  of  laden  mules,  by  a 
stream  of  foot  passengers.  Interruption  of  his  monologue, 
short  of  raising  her  voice  to  screaming  pitch,  was  impossible 
to  Madame  de  Vallorbes.  But  when  he  ceased  she  addressed 
him,  and  her  lips  were  drawn  away  from  her  pretty  teeth 
viciously. 

"  Oh  !  you  unspeakable  idiot !  "  she  said.  "  Have  you  no 
remnant  of  decency  ?  " 

"  Do  you  mean  to  imply  that  Sir  Richard  Calmady  would 
have  the  insolence,  is  so  much  the  victim  of  insular  prejudice 
as,  to  object  to  our  intimacy  ?  " 

Madame  de  Vallorbes  clapped  her  hands  together  in  a  sort 
of  frenzy. 

"  Idiot,  idiot,"  she  repeated.     "  I  wish  I  could  kill  you." 

Suddenly  M.  Paul  Destournelle  had  all  his  wits  about  him. 

"  Ah  ! "  he  said,  with  a  short  laugh,  curiously  resembling 
in  its  malice  the  bleating  of  the  little  goats,  "  I  perceive  that 
which  constitutes  the  obstacle  to  our  union.  It  shall  be  re- 
moved." 

He  lifted  his  Panama  hat  with  studied  elegance,  and  turning 
down  a  break-neck,  side  alley,  called,  over  his  shoulder: — 

^^Abientot  trh  chere  madameJ^ 


CHAPTER  VII 

SPLENDIDE    MENDAX 

TpsTPUNCTUALITY  could  not  be  cited  as  among 
^  Madame  do  Vallorbes'  offenses.  Yet,  on  the  morning 
in  question,  she  was  certainly  very  late  for  the  twelve  o'clock 
breakfast.  Richard  Calmady — awaiting  her  coming  beneath 
the  glistering  dome  of  the  airy  pavilion,  set  in  the  angle  of  the 
terminal  wall  of  the  high-lying  garden — had  time  to  become 
conscious  of  slight  irritation.  It  was  not  merely  that  he  was 
constitutionally  impatient  of  delay,  but  that  hi§  nerves  were 


48o  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

tiresomely  on  edge  just  now.  Trifles  had  power  to  endanger 
his  somewhat  stoic  equanimity.  But  when  at  length  Helen 
emerged  from  the  house  irritation  was  forgotten.  Moving 
through  the  vivid  lights  and  shadows  of  the  ilex  and  cypress 
grove,  her  appearance  had  a  charm  of  unwonted  simplicity. 
At  first  sight  her  graceful  person  had  the  effect  of  being 
clothed  in  a  religious  habit.  Richard's  youthful  delight  in 
seeing  a  woman  walk  beautifully  remained  to  him.  It  re- 
ceived satisfaction  now.  Helen  advanced  without  haste,  a 
certain  grandeur  in  her  demeanour,  a  certain  gloom,  even  as 
one  who  takes  serious  counsel  of  himself,  indifferent  to  ex- 
ternal things,  at  once  actor  in,  and  spectator  of,  some  drama 
playing  itself  out  in  the  theatre  of  his  own  soul.  And  this 
effect  of  dignity,  of  self-recollection,  was  curiously  heightened 
by  her  dress — of  a  very  soft  and  fine,  woolen  material,  of 
spotless  white,  the  lines  of  it  at  once  flowing  and  statuesque. 
While  as  head-gear,  in  place  of  some  startling  construction 
of  contemporary,  Parisian  millinery,  she  wore,  after  the  modest 
Italian  fashion,  a  black  lace  mantilla  over  her  bright  hair. 

Arrived,  she  greeted  Richard  curtly,  and  without  apology  for 
delay  accepted  the  contents  of  the  first  dish  offered  to  her  by 
the  waiting  men-servants,  ate  as  though  determinedly  and  put- 
ting a  force  upon  herself,  and — that  which  was  unusual  with 
her  before  sundown — drank  wine.  And,  watching  her,  in- 
voluntarily Richard's  thought  traveled  back  to  a  certain 
luncheon  party  at  Brockhurst,  graced  by  the  presence  of 
genial,  puzzle-headed  Lord  Fallowfeild  and  members  of  his 
numerous  family,  when  Helen  had  swept  in,  even  as  now,  had 
been  self-absorbed,  even  as  now.  Of  the  drive  to  Newlands, 
all  in  the  sad  November  afternoon,  following  on  that  luncheon, 
he  also  thought,  of  communications  made  by  Helen  during 
that  drive,  and  of  the  long  course  of  event  and  action  directly 
or  indirectly  consequent  on  those  communications.  He 
thought  of  the  fog,  too,  enveloping  and  almost  choking  him^ 
when  in  the  early  morning  driven  by  furies,  still  virgin  in  body 
as  in  heart,  he  had  ridden  out  into  a  blank  and  sightless  world 
hoping  the  chill  of  it  would  allay  the  fever  in  his  blood, — and 
of  the  fog  again,  in  the  afternoon,  from  out  which  the 
branches  of  the  great  trees,  like  famine-stricken  arms  in  tat- 
tered draperies,  seemed  to  pluck  evilly  at  the  carriage,  as  he 
walked  the  smoking  horses  up  and  down  the  Newlands*  drive, 


RAKE'S  PROGRESS  481 

waiting  for  Helen  to  rejoin  him.  And  now,  somehow,  that 
fog  seemed  to  come  up  between  him  and  the  well-furnished 
breakfast-table,  between  him  and  the  radiant  expanse  of  the 
vivacious,  capricious,  half-classic,  half-modern,  mercantile  city 
outstretched  there,  teeming,  breeding,  fermenting,  in  the 
fecundating  heat  of  the  noonday  sun.  The  chill  of  the  fog 
struck  cold  into  his  vitals  now,  giving  him  the  strangest  phys- 
ical sensation.  Richard  straightened  himself  in  his  chair, 
passed  his  hands  across  his  eyes  impatiently.  Brockhurst,  and 
all  the  old  life  of  it,  was  a  subject  of  which  he  forbade  him- 
self remembrance.  He  had  divorced  himself  from  all  that, 
cut  himself  adrift  from  it  long  ago.  By  an  act  of  will,  he 
tried  to  put  it  out  of  his  mind  now.  But  the  fog  remained — 
an  actual  clouding  of  his  physical  vision,  blurring  all  he  looked 
upon.  It  was  horribly  uncomfortable.  He  wished  he  was 
alone.  Then  he  might  have  slipped  down  from  his  chair  and, 
according  to  his  poor  capacity  of  locomotion,  sought  relief  in 
movement. 

Meanwhile,  silently,  mechanically,  Helen  de  Vallorbes  con- 
tinued her  breakfast.  And  as  she  so  continued,  in  addition  to 
his  singular  physical  sensations  of  blurred  vision  and  clinging 
chill,  he  became  aware  of  a  growing  embarrassment  and  con- 
straint between  himself  and  his  companion.  So  far,  his  and 
her  intercourse  had  been  easy  and  spontaneous,  because  super- 
ficial. Since  that  first  interview  on  the  terrace  a  tacit  agree- 
ment had  existed  to  avoid  the  personal  note.  Now,  for  cause 
unknown,  that  intercourse  threatened  entering  upon  a  new 
phase.  It  was  as  though  the  concentration,  the  tension,  which 
he  observed  in  her,  and  of  which  he  w^as  sensible  in  himself, 
must  of  necessity  eventuate  in  some  unbosoming,  some  act — 
almost  involuntary — of  self-revelation.  This  unaccustomed 
silence  and  restraint  seemed  to  Richard  charged  with  conse- 
quences which,  in  his  present  condition  of  defective  volition, 
he  was  powerless  to  prevent.  And  this  displeased  him, 
mastery  of  surrounding  influences  being  very  dear  to  him. 

At  last,  coffee  having  been  served,  the  men-servants  with- 
drew to  the  house,  but  the  constraint  was  not  thereby  lessened. 
Helen  sat  upright,  her  chin  resting  upon  the  back  of  her  left 
hand,  her  eyes,  under  their  drooping  lids,  looking  out  with  a 
veiled  fierceness  upon  the  fair  and  glittering  prospect.  Rich- 
ard saw  her  face  in  profile.     The  black  mantilla  draped  her 


482  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

shoulders  and  bust  with  a  certain  austerity  of  effect.  It  was 
evident  that — by  something — she  had  been  stirred  to  the  ex- 
tinction of  her  habitual  vivacity  and  desire  to  shine.  And 
Richard,  for  all  his  coolness  of  head  and  rather  cynical  ma- 
turity of  outlook,  had  a  restless  suspicion  of  going  forth — " 
even  as  on  that  foggy  morning  at  Brockhurst — into  a  blank 
and  sightless  world,  full  of  hazardous  possibility,  where  the 
safe  way  was  difficult  of  discovery  and  where  masked  dangers 
might  lurk.  Solicitous  to  dissipate  his  discomfort  he  spoke  a 
little  at  random. 

"You  must  forgive  me  for  being  such  an  abominably  bad 
host,"  he  said  courteously.  "  I  am  not  quite  the  thing  this 
morning,  somehow.  I  had  a  little  go  of  fever  last  night.  My 
brain  is  like  so  much  pulp." 

Helen  dropped  her  hand  upon  the  table  as  though  putting  a 
term  to  an  importunate  train  of  thought. 

"  I  have  always  understood  the  villa  to  be  remarkably  free 
from  malaria,"  she  remarked  abstractedly. 

"  So  it  is.  I  quite  believe  that.  The  servants  certainly 
keepi  well  enough.     But  so,  unfortunately,  is  not  the  port." 

Helen  turned  her  head.  A  vertical  line  was  observable  be- 
tween her  arched  eyebrows. 

"  The  port  ?  "  she  repeated. 

Richard  swallowed  his  black  coffee.  Perhaps  it  might 
steady  him  and  clear  his  head.  The  numbness  of  his  facul- 
ties and  senses  alike  exasperated  him,  filling  him  with  a  per- 
suasion he  would  say  precisely  those  things  wisdom  would 
counsel  to  leave  unsaid. 

"  Yes — you  know  I  generally  go  down  and  sleep  on  board 
the  yacht." 

There  was  a  momentary  pause.  Madame  de  Vallorbes' 
lips  parted  in  a  soundless  exclamation.  Then  she  pushed 
back  the  modest  folds  of  the  mantilla,  leaving  her  neck  free. 
The  action  of  her  hands  was  very  graceful  as  she  did  this, 
and  she  looked  fixedly  at  Richard  Calmady. 

"  I  did  not  know  that,"  she  said  slowly.  Then  added,  as 
though  reasoning  out  her  own  thought : — "  And  Naples  har- 
bour is  admittedly  one  of  the  most  pestilential  holes  on  the 
face  of  the  earth.  Are  you  not  tempting  providence  in  the 
matter  of  disease,  Richard  ?  Are  you  not  rather  wantonly  in- 
discreet i  " 


RAKE'S  PROGRESS  483 

"  On  the  contrary/'  he  answered,  and  something  of  mock- 
ery touched  his  expression,  "  I  see  it  quite  otherwise.  I  have 
been  congratulating  myself  on  the  praiseworthy  abundance  of 
my  discretion." 

And  the  words  were  no  sooner  out  of  his  mouth  than  Rich- 
ard cursed  himself  for  a  bungler,  and  a  slightly  vulgar  one  at 
that.  But  upon  his  hearer  those  same  words  worked  a  re- 
markable change.  Her  gloom,  her  abstraction,  departed, 
leaving  only  a  pretty  pensiveness.  She  smiled  with  chastened 
sweetness  upon  Richard  Calmady — a  smile  nicely  attuned  to 
the  semi-religious  simplicity  of  her  dress. 

"  Ah !  perhaps  we  are  both  a  trifle  out  of  sorts  this  morn- 
ing !  "  she  said.  "  I,  too,  have  had  my  little  turn  of  sickness 
— sickness  of  heart.  And  that  seems  unfair,  since  I  rose  in 
the  best  disposition  of  spirit.  Quite  early  I  went  to  con- 
fession." 

"  Confession  ?  "  Richard  repeated.  ''  I  did  not  know  your 
submission  to  the  Church  carried  you  to  such  practical 
lengths." 

*'  Evidently  we  are  each  fated  to  make  small  discoveries  re- 
garding the  habits  of  the  other,  to-day,"  she  rejoined.  "  Pos- 
sibly confession  is  to  me  just  what  those  nights  spent  on 
board  the  yacht,  lying  in  that  malodorous  harbour,  are  to 
you  ! "  • 

Helen's  smile  broadened  to  a  dainty  naughtiness,  infinitely 
provoking.  But  pensiveness  speedily  supervened.  She  folded 
her  hands  upon  the  edge  of  the  table  and  looked  down  at 
them  meditatively. 

"  I  relieved  my  conscience.  Not  that  there  was  much  to 
relieve  it  of,  thank  heaven  !  We  have  lived  austerely  enough 
most  of  us,  this  winter  in  France.  Only  it  becomes  a  matter 
of  moral,  personal  cleanliness,  after  a  time,  all  that — exag- 
gerated, but  very  comfortable.  Just  as  one  takes  one's  bath 
twice  daily,  not  that  it  is  necessary  but  that  it  is  a  luxury  of 
physical  purity  and  self-respect,  so  one  comes  to  go  to  con- 
fession. That  is  a  luxury  of  moral  purification.  It  is  as  a 
bath  to  the  soul,  ministering  to  the  perfection  of  its  cleanli^ 
ness  and  health." 

She  looked  up  at  Richard  smiling,  that  same  dainty  naughtl' 
ness  very  present. 

You  observe  I  am  eminently  candid,     I  tell  you  exactly 


u 


484  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

how  my  religion  affects  me.  I  can  only  reach  high-thinking 
through  acts  which  are  external  and  concrete.  In  short,  I  am 
a  born  sacramentalist." 

And  Richard  listened,  interested  and  entertained.  Yet, 
since  that  strange  blurring  of  fog  still  confused  his  vision  and 
his  judgment,  vaguely  suspicious  that  he  missed  the  main 
intent  of  her  speech.  Suspicious  as  one  who,  listening  to  the 
clever  patter  of  a  conjurer,  detects  in  it  the  effort  to  distract 
attention  from  some  difficult  feat  of  legerdemain,  until  that 
feat  has  passed  from  attempt  merely  into  accomplished  fact. 

"And,  indirectly,  that  is  where  my  heart-sickness  comes 
in,"  she  continued,  with  a  return  to  something  of  her  former 
abstraction  and  gloom.  "  I  was  coming  away,  coming  back 
here — and  I  was  very  happy.  It  is  not  often  one  can  say 
that.  And  then — pouf—Yik^  that,''  she  brought  her  hands 
smartly  together,  "  the  charming  bubble  burst !  For,  upon  the 
very  church  steps,  I  met  a  man  whom  I  have  every  cause  to 
hate." 

As  she  spoke,  the  fog  seemed  to  draw  away,  burnt  up  by  the 
great,  flaming  sun-god  there.  Richard's  brain  grew  clear — 
clearer,  indeed,  than  in  perfect  health — and  his  still  face  grew 
more  still  than  was,  even  to  it,  quite  natural. 

"Well  ?  "  he  asked,  almost  harshly. 

And  Helen,  whose  faith  in  her  own  diplomacy  had 
momentarily  suffered  eclipse,  rejoiced.  For  the  tone  of  his 
voice  betrayed  not  disgust,  but  anxiety.  It  stirred  her  as  a 
foretaste  of  victory.  And  victory  had  become  a  maddening 
necessity  to  her.  Destournelle  had  forced  her .  hand.  His 
natural  infirmity  of  purpose  relieved  her  of  the  fear  he  could 
work  her  any  great  mischief.  Yet  his  ingenuity,  inspired  by 
wounded  vanity,  might  prove  beyond  her  calculations.  It  is 
not  always  safe  to  forecast  the  future  by  experience  of  the  past 
in  relation  to  such  a  being  as  Destournelle  !  Therefore  it  be- 
came of  supreme  importance,  before  that  gentleman  had  time 
further  to  obtrude  himself,  to  bind  Richard  Calmady  by  some 
speech,  some  act,  from  which  there  was  no  going  back.  And 
more  than  just  that.  The  sight  of  her  ex-lover,  though  she 
now  loathed  him — possibly  just  because  she  so  loathed  himr — 
provoked  passion  in  her.  It  was  as  though  only  in  a  new 
intrigue  could  she  rid  herself  of  the  remembrance  of  the  old 
intrigue  which  was  now  so  detestable  to  her.     She  craved  to 


RAKE'S  PROGRESS  485 

do  him  that  deepest,  most  ultimate,  despite.  And  passion 
cried  out  in  her.  The  sight  of  him,  though  she  loathed  him, 
had  made  her  utterly  weary  of  chastity.  All  of  which  emotions 
— but  held  as  hounds  in  a  leash,  ready  to  be  slipped  when  the 
psychological  moment  arrived,  and  by  no  means  to  be  slipped 
until  the  arrival  of  it — dictated  the  tenor  of  her  next  speech. 

"  Well,"  she  answered,  with  an  air  of  half-angry  sincerity 
altogether  convincing,  "  I  really  don*t  know  that  I  am  par- 
ticularly proud  of  the  episode.  I  know  I  was  careless,  that  I 
laid  myself  open  to  the  invidious  comment,  which  is  usually 
the  reward  of  all  disinterested  action.  One  learns  to  accept  it 
as  a  matter  of  course.     And  you  see  Paul  Destournelle " 

"  Oh,  Destournelle  !  "  Richard  exclaimed. 

"You  have  read  him  ?  " 

"  Every  one  has  read  him." 

"  And  what  do  you  think  of  him  ?  " 

"  That  his  technique  is  as  amazingly  clever  as  his  thought 
:is  amazingly  rotten." 

"  I  know — I  know,"  she  said  eagerly.  "  And  that  is  just 
what  induced  me  to  do  all  I  could  for  him.  If  one  could  cut 
the  canker  away,  give  him  backbone  and  decency,  while  re- 
taining that  wonderful  technique,  one  would  have  a  second 
and  a  greater  Theophile  Gautier." 

Richard  was  looking  full  at  her.  His  face  had  more  colour, 
more  animation,  than  usual. 

"  If — yes — if,"  he  returned.  "  But  that  same  if  bulks 
mighty  big  to  my  mind." 

"  I  know,"  she  repeated.  "  Yet  it  seemed  to  me  worth  the 
attempt.  And  then,  you  understand, — who  better  ? — that  if 
one's  own  affairs  are  not  conspicuously  happy,  one  has  all  the 
more  longing  the  affairs  of  others  should  be  crowned  with 
success.  And  this  winter  specially,  among  the  sordid  miseries, 
disgraces,  deprivations,  of  the  siege,  one  was  liable  to  take 
refuge  in  an  over-exalted  altruism.  It  was  difficult  in  so  mad 
a  world  not  to  indulge  in  personal  eccentricity — to  the  neglect 
of  due  worship  of  the  great  goddess  Conventionality.  With 
death  in  visible  form  at  every  street  corner,  one's  sense  of 
humour,  let  alone  one's  higher  faculties,  rebelled  against  the 
futility  of  such  worship.  So  many  detestable  sights  and 
sounds  were  perpetually  presented  to  one — not  to  mention 
broth  of  abominable  things  daily  for  dinner — that  one  turned. 


486  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

with  thanksgiving,  to  beautiful  form  in  art,  to  perfectly 
felicitous  words  and  phrases.  The  meaning  of  them  mattered 
but  little  just  then.  They  freed  one  from  the  tyranny  of  more 
or  less  disgusting  fact.  They  satisfied  eye  and  ear.  One 
asked  nothing  more  just  then — luckily,  you  will  say,  since  the 
animal  Destournelle  has  very  surely  nothing  more  to  give." 

In  speaking,  Helen  pushed  her  chair  back,  turning  it  side- 
ways to  the  table.  Her  speech  was  alive  with  varied  and  tell- 
ing inflections.  Her  smallest  gesture  had  in  it  something 
descriptive  and  eloquent. 

^'  And  so  I  fell  to  encouraging  the  animal,"  she  continued^ 
almost  plaintively,  yet  with  a  note  of  veiled  laughter  in  her 
voice.  "  Reversing  the  order  of  Circe — Naples  inclines  one 
to  classic  illustration,  sometimes  a  little  hackneyed — by  the 
way,  speaking  of  Naples,  look  at  the  glory  of  it  all  just  now, 
Richard ! — I  tried  to  turn,  not  men  to  swine,  but  swine  to 
men.  And  I  failed,  of  course.  The  gods  know  best.  They 
never  attempt  metamorphosis  on  the  ascending  scale  !  I  let 
Destournelle  come  to  see  me  frequently.  The  world  advised 
itself  to  talk.  But,  being  rather  bitterly  secure  of  myself,  I 
disregarded  that.  If  one  is  aware  that  one's  heart  was  finally 
and  long  ago  disposed  of,  one  ceases  to  think  seriously  of  that 
side  of  things.  You  must  know  all  that  well  enough — witness 
the  sea-born  furnishings  of  my  bedroom  up-stairs  !  " 

For  half  a  minute  she  paused.  Richard  made  no  com- 
ment. 

"  Hard  words  break  no  bones,"  she  added  lightly.  "  And 
so,  to  show  how  much  I  despised  all  such  censorious  cackle, 
I  allowed  Destournelle  to  travel  south  with  me  when  I  left 
Paris." 

"You  pushed  neglect  of  the  worship  of  conventionality 
rather  far,"  Richard  said. 

Helen  rose  to  her  feet.  Excitement  gained  on  her,  as 
always  during  one  of  her  delightful  improvisations,  her  talented 
viva  voce  improvements  on  dry-as-dust  fact.  She  laughed 
softly,  biting  her  lip.  More  than  one  hound  had  been  slipped 
by  now.  They  made  good  running.  She  stood  by  Richard 
Calmady,  looking  down  at  him,  covering  him,  so  to  speak, 
with  her  eyes.  The  black  mantilla  no  longer  veiled  her  bright 
head.  It  had  fallen  to  the  ground,  and  lay  a  dark  blot  upon 
the  mellow  fairness  of  the  tesselated  pavement.     White-robed, 


RAKE'S  PROGRESS  487 

statuesque — ^yet  not  with  the  severe  grace  of  marble,  but  with 
that*  softer,  more  humanly  seductive  grace  of  some  figure  of 
cunningly  tinted  ivory — she  appeared,  just  then,  to  gather  up 
in  herself  all  the  poetry,  the  intense  and  vivid  light,  the 
victorious  vitality,  of  the  clear,  burning,  southern  noon. 

"Ah,  well,  conventionality  proved  perfectly  competent  to 
avenge  herself!"  she  exclaimed.  '^  The  animal  Destour- 
nelle  took  the  average,  the  banal  view,  as  might  have  been  an- 
ticipated. He  had  the  insane  presumption  to  suppose  it  was 
himself,  not  his  art,  in  which  I  was  interested.  I  explained 
his  error,  and  departed.  I  recovered  my  equanimity.  That 
took  time.  I  felt  soiled,  degraded.  And  then  to-day  I  meet 
him  again,  unashamed,  actually  claiming  recognition.  I  re- 
peated my  explanation  with  uncompromising  lucidity " 

Richard  moved  restlessly  in  his  chair,  looking  up  almost 
sharply  at  her. 

"  Waste  of  breath,"  he  said.  "  No  explanation  is  lucid  if 
the  hearer  is  unwilling  to  accept  it." 

And  then  the  two  cousins,  as  though  they  had  reached  un- 
expectedly some  parting  of  the  ways,  calling  for  instant  de- 
cision in  respect  of  the  future  direction  of  their  journey,  gazed 
upon  one  another  strangely — each  half  defiant  of  the  other, 
each  diligent  to  hide  his  own  and  read  the  other's  thought, 
each  sensible  of  a  crisis,  each  at  once  hurried  and  arrested  by 
suspicion  of  impending  catastrophe,  unless  this  way  be  chosen 
that  declined — though  it  seemed,  in  good  truth,  not  in  their 
keeping,  but  in  that  of  blind  chance  only  that  both  selection 
and  rejection  actually  resided.  And,  in  this  strait,  neither 
habit  of  society,  fine  sword-play  of  diplomacy  and  tact,  availed 
to  help  them.  For  suddenly  they  had  outpaced  all  that,  and 
brought  up  amongst  ancient  and  secular  springs  of  action  and 
emotion  before  which  civilisation  is  powerless  and  the  ready 
tongue  of  fashion  dumb. 

But  even  while  he  so  gazed,  in  fateful  suspense  and  inde- 
cision, the  fog  came  up  again,  chilling  Richard  Calmady's 
blood,  oppressing  his  brain  as  with  an  uprising  of  foul  miasma, 
blurring  his  vision,  so  that  Helen's  fair,  downward-gazing  face 
was  distorted,  rendered  illusive  and  vague.  And,  along  with 
this,  distressing  restlessness  took  him,  compelling  him  to  seek 
relief  in  change  of  posture  and  of  place.  He  could  not  stop 
to  reckon  with  how  that  which  he  proposed  to  do  might  strike 


488  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

an  onlooker.  His  immediate  sensations  filled  his  whole  hori- 
zon. Silently  he  slipped  down  from  his  chair,  stood  a*  mo- 
ment, supporting  himself  with  one  hand  on  the  edge  of  the 
table,  and  then  moved  forward  to  that  side  of  the  pavilion 
which  gave  upon  the  garden.  Here  the  sunshine  was  hot 
upon  the  pavement,  and  upon  the  outer  half  of  each  pale,  slender 
column.  Richard  leant  his  shoulder  against  one  of  these, 
grateful  for  the  genial  heat. 

Since  her  first  and  somewhat  inauspicious  meeting  with  him 
in  childhood,  Helen  had  never,  close  at  hand,  seen  Richard 
Calmady  walk  thus  far.  She  stared,  fascinated  by  that  cruel 
spectacle.  For  the  instant  transformation  of  the  apparently 
tall,  and  conspicuously  well-favoured,  courtly  gentleman,  just 
now  sitting  at  table  with  her,  into  the  shuffling,  long-armed, 
dwarfed  and  crippled  creature  was,  at  first  utterly  incredible, 
then  portentous.  All  the  primitive  instinct  of  her  womanhood 
called  aloud  in  her  that  she  must  wed — must  wed.  And  the 
strident  voice  of  the  great,  painted  city  coming  up  lo  her, 
urgent,  incessant,  carried  the  same  message,  as  did  the  radiant 
sea,  whose  white  lips  kissed  the  indented  coast-line  as  though 
pale  and  hungry  with  love.  He  was  to  her  of  all  living  men 
most  desirable,  so  that  she  must  win  him  and  hold  him. 

In  a  few  steps,  light  as  those  of  the  little,  rose-crowned 
dancer  of  long  ago,  she  followed  him  across  the  shining  floor. 
There  was  a  point  of  north  in  the  wind,  adding  exhilaration 
to  the  firm  sunshine  as  ice  to  rare  wine.  The  scent  of  nar- 
cissus, magnolia,  and  lemon  blossom  was  everywhere.  The 
cypresses  yielded  an  aromatic,  myrrh-like  sweetness.  The  up- 
rising waters  of  the  fountain,  set  in  the  central  alley, 
, swerved  southward,  falling  in  a  jeweled  rain.  Helen,  in  her 
spotless  raiment,  came  close  and  Richard  Calmady  turned  to 
her.  But  his  eyes  no  longer  questioned  hers.  They  were  as 
windows  opening  back  on  to  empty  space,  seeing  all,  yet  tell- 
ing nothing.  His  face  had  become  still  again  and  inscrutable, 
lightened  only  by  that  flickering,  mocking  smile.  It  seemed 
as  though  the  psychological  moment  were  passed  and  social 
sense,  ordinary  fashions  of  civilised  intercourse,  had  not  only 
come  back  but  come  to  stay. 

'*  I  think  we  will  omit  Destournelle  from  our  talk  in  future," 
he  said.     '*As  a  subject  of  conversation  I  find  he  disagrees 


RAKE'S  PROGRESS  489 

with  me,  notwithstanding  his  felicity  of  style  and  his  admirable 
technique.  I  will  give  orders  which,  I  hope,  may  help  to  pro- 
tect you  from  annoyance  in  future.  In  this  delightful  land, 
by  wise  exercise  of  just  a  little  bribery  and  corruption,  it  is 
still  possible  to  make  the  unwelcome  alien  prefer  to  seek 
health  and  entertainment  elsewhere.  Now,  will  you  like  to  go 
back  to  the  house  ?  " 

The  approach  to  the  pavilion  from  the  lower  level  of  the 
garden  was  by  a  carefully  graded  slope  of  Roman  brick,  set 
edgewise.  At  regular  intervals  of  about  eighteen  inches  this 
was  crossed — on  the  principle  of  a  gang-plank — by  raised 
marble  treads.  Without  waiting  for  his  cousin's  reply,  Rich- 
ard started  slowly  down  the  slope.  At  the  best  of  times  this 
descent  for  him  demanded  caution.  Now  his  vision  was 
again  so  queerly  blurred  that  he  miscalculated  the  distance  be- 
tween the  two  lowest  treads,  slipped  and  stumbled,  lunging 
forward.  Quick  as  a  cat,  Madame  de  Vallorbes  was  behind 
him,  her  right  hand  grasping  his  right  elbow,  her  left  hand  un- 
der his  left  armpit. 

*' Ah  !  Dickie,  Dickie,  don't  fall !  "  she  cried,  a  sudden  ter- 
ror in  her  voice. 

Her  muscles  hardened  like  steel.  It  needed  all  her  strength 
to  support  him,  for  he  was  heavy,  his  body  inert  as  that  of  one 
fainting.  For  a  moment  his  head  rested  against  her  bosom  ; 
and  her  breath  came  short,  sighing  against  his  neck  and 
cheek. 

By  sheer  force  of  will  Richard  recovered  his  footing,  disen- 
gaging himself  from  her  support,  shuffling  aside  from  her. 

*' A  thousand  thanks,  Helen,"  he  said. 

Then  he  looked  full  at  her,  and  she — untender  though  she 
was — perceived  that  the  perspective  of  space  on  which,  as 
windows  might,  his  eyes  seemed  to  open  back,  was  not  empty. 
It  was  peopled,  crowded — even  as  those  steep,  teeming  byways 
of  Naples — by  undying,  unforgetable  misery,  humiliation,  re- 
volt. 

*' Y^s,  it  is  rather  unpardonable  to  be — as  I  am — isn't  it?'* 
he  said.  Adding  hastily,  yet  with  a  certain  courteous  dignit)^ : 
-— **I  am  ashamed  to  trouble  you,  to  ask  you — of  all  people— 


490  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

to  run  messages  for  me — but  would  you  go  on  to  the 
house " 

•*  Dickie,  why  may  not  I  help  you? "  she  interrupted. 

*' Ah  I  "  he  said,  ''the  answer  to  that  lies  away  back  in  the 
beginning  of  things.  Even  unlucky  devils,  such  as  myself,  are 
not  without  a  certain  respect  for  that  which  is  fitting,  for  seem- 
liness  and  etiquette.  Send  one  of  my  men  please.  I  shall  be 
very  grateful  to  you — thanks. " 

And  Helen  de  Vallorbes,  her  passion  baulked  and  therefore 
more  than  ever  at  white  heat,  swept  up  the  paved  alley,  amid 
the  sweet  scents  of  the  garden,  beneath  the  jeweled  rain  of  the 
fountain,  that  point  of  north  in  the  wind  dallying  with  her  as 
in  laughing  challenge,  making  her  the  more  mad  to  have  her 
way  with  Richard  Calmady,  yet  knowing  that  of  the  two — he 
and  she — he  was  the  stronger  as  yet. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

IN    WHICH    HELEN   DE  VALLORBES    LEARNS    HER    RIVAL's    NAME 

"  T  HEAR  Morabita  sings,  in  Ernani^  at  the  San  Carlo  on 
^     Friday  night.     Do  you  care  to  go,  Helen  ?  " 

The  question,  though  asked  casually,  had,  to  the  listener, 
the  effect  of  falling  v^ith  a  splash,  as  of  a  stone  into  a  well, 
awakening  unexpected  echoes,  disturbing,  rather  harshly,  the 
constrained  silence  which  had  reigned  during  the  earlier  part 
of  dinner. 

All  the  long,  hot  afternoon,  Madame  de  Vallorbes  had  been 
alone — Richard  invisible,  shut  persistently  away  in  those 
rooms  of  the  entresol  into  which,  as  yet,  she  had  never  suc- 
ceeded in  penetrating.  Richard  had  not  proposed  to  her  to 
do  so.  And  it  was  part  of  that  praiseworthy  discretion  which 
she  had  agreed  with  herself  to  practise — in  her  character  of 
scrupulously    unexacting   guest — only   to    accept    invitations, 


RAKE'S  PROGRESS  491 

never  to  issue  them.  How  her  cousin  might  occupy  himself, 
whom  even  he  might  receive,  during  the  time  spent  in  those 
rooms,  she  did  not  know.  And  it  was  idle  to  inquire. 
Neither  of  her  servants,  though  skilful  enough,  as  a  rule,  in 
the  acquisition  of  information,  could,  in  this  case,  acquire 
any.  And  so  it  came  about  that  during  those  many  still 
bright  hours,  following  on  her  rather  agitated  parting  with 
Richard  at  midday,  while  she  paced  the  noble  rooms  of  the 
first  floor — once  more  taking  note  of  their  costly  furnishings 
and  fine  pictures,  meeting  her  own  restless  image  again  and 
again  in  their  many  mirrors — and  later,  near  sundown,  when 
she  walked  the  dry,  brown  pathways  of  the  ilex  and  cypress 
grove,  the  wildest  suspicions  of  his  possible  doings  assailed 
her.  For  she  was  constrained  to  admit  that,  though  she  had 
spent  a  full  week  now  under  his  roof,  it  was  but  the  veriest 
fringe,  after  all,  of  the  young  man's  habits  and  thought  with 
which  she  was  actually  acquainted.  And  this  not  only  desper- 
ately intrigued  her  curiosity,  but  the  apartness,  behind  which 
he  entrenched  himself  and  his  doings,  was  as  a  slight  put  upon 
her  and  consequent  source  of  sharp  mortification.  So  to-day 
she  ranged  all  permitted  spaces  of  the  villa  and  its  grounds 
softly,  yet  lithe,  watchful,  fierce  as  a  she-panther — her  ears 
strained  to  hear,  her  eyes  to  see,  driven  the  while  by  jealousy 
of  that  nameless  rival,  to  remembrance  of  whom  all  the  whole 
place  was  dedicated,  and  by  baffled  passion,  as  with  whips. 

Nor  did  superstition  fail  to  add  its  word  of  ill-omen  at  this 
juncture.  A  carrion  crow,  long-legged,  heavy  of  beak,  alight- 
ing on  the  clustered  curls  of  the  marble  bust  of  Homer, 
startled  her  with  vociferous  croakings.  A  long,  narrow, 
many-jointed,  blue-black,  evil-looking  beetle  crawled  from 
among  the  rusty,  fibrous,  cypress  roots  across  her  path.  A 
funeral  procession,  priest  and  acolytes,  with  lighted  tapers, 
sitting  within  the  glass-sided  hearse  at  head  and  foot  of  the 
flower-strewn  coffin,  wound  slowly  along  the  dusty,  white 
road — bordered  by  queer  growth  of  prickly-pear  and  ragged, 
stunted  palm-trees — far  below.  She  crossed  herself,  turning 
hurriedly  away.  Yet,  for  an  instant.  Death,  triumphant, 
hideous,  inevitable,  and  all  the  spiritual  terror  and  physical 
disgust  of  it,  grinned  at  her,  its  fleshless  face,  as  it  seemed, 
close  against  her  own.  And  alongside  Death — by  some 
malign  association  of  ideas  and  ugly  antic  of  profanity — she 


;^()±  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

saw  the  bel  tete  de  Jesu  of  M.  Paul  Destournelle  as  she  had 
seen  it  this  morning,  he  looking  back,  hat  in  hand,  as  he 
plunged  down  the  break-neck,  Neapolitan  side-street,  with 
that  impish,  bleating,  goatlike  laugh. 

By  the  time  the  dinner-hour  drew  near  she  found  her  out- 
look in  radical  need  of  reconstruction,  and  to  that  end  bade 
Zelie  dress  her  in  the  crocus-yellow  brocade,  reserved  for 
some  emergency  such  as  the  present.  It  was  a  gown,  surely, 
to  restore  self-confidence  and  induce  self-respect!  Fashioned 
fancifully,  according  to  a  picturesque,  seventeenth-century, 
Venetian  model,  the  full  sleeves  and  the  long-waisted  bodice 
of  it — this  cut  low,  generously  displaying  her  shoulders  and 
swell  of  her  bosom — were  draped  with  superb  guipure  de 
Flandres  a  brides  frisees  and  strings  of  seed  pearls.  All  trace 
of  ascetic  simplicity  had  very  certainly  departed.  Helen  was 
resplendent- — strings  of  seed  pearls  twisted  in  her  honey- 
coloured  hair,  a  clear  red  in  her  cheeks  and  hard  brilliance  in 
her  eyes,  bred  of  eager  jealous  excitement.  She  had,  indeed, 
reached  a  stage  of  feeling  in  which  the  sight  of  Richard 
Calmady,  the  fact  of  his  presence,  worked  upon  her  to  the 
extent  of  dangerous  emotion.  And  now  this  statement  of  his, 
and  the  question  following  it,  caused  the  flame  of  the  inward 
fires  tormenting  her  to  leap  high. 

"  Ah  !  Morabita  !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  What  an  age  it  is 
since  I  have  heard  her  sing,  or  thought  about  her !  How  is 
her  voice  lasting,  Richard  ?  " 

"  I  really  don't  know,"  he  answered,  "  and  that  is  why  I 
am 'rather  curious  to  hear  her.  There  was  literally  nothing 
but  a  voice  in  her  case — no  dramatic  sense,  nothing  in  the 
way  of  intelligence  to  fall  back  on.  On  that  account  it  in- 
terested me  to  watch  her.  She  and  her  voice  had  no  essential 
relation  to  one  another.  Her  talent  was  stuck  into  her,  as 
you  might  stick  a  pin  into  a  cushion.  She  produced  glorious 
effects  without  a  notion  how  she  produced  them,  and  gave  ex- 
pression— and  perfectly  just  expression — to  emotions  she  had 
never  dreamed  of.  At  the  best  of  times  singers  are  a  feeble 
folk  intellectually,  but,  of  all  singers  I  have  known,  she  was 
mentally  the  very  feeblest." 

"  No,  perhaps  she  was  not  very  wise,"  Helen  put  in,  but 
quite  mildly,  quite  kindly. 

''  And   so  if  the   voice  went,  everything  went.     And  that 


RAKE'S  PROGRESS  493 

made  one  reflect  agreeably  upon  the  remarkably  haphazard 
methods  employed  by  that  which  we  politely  call  Almighty 
God  in  His  construction  of  our  unhappy  selves.  Design  ? — 
There's  not  a  trace  of  design  in  the  whole  show.  Bodies, 
souls,  gifts,  superfluities,  deficiencies,  just  pitched  together 
anyhow.  The  most  bungling  of  human  artists  would  blush  to 
turn  out  such  work." 

Richard  spoke  rapidly.  He  had  refused  course  after  course. 
And  now  the  food  on  his  plate  remained  untasted.  Seen  in 
the  soft  light  of  the  shaded  candles  his  face  had  a  strange  look 
of  distraction  upon  it,  as  though  he  too  was  restless  with  an 
intimate,  deep-seated  restlessness.  His  skin  was  less  colour- 
less than  usual,  his  manner  less  colourless  also.  And  this 
conferred  a  certain  youthfulness  on  him,  making  him  seem 
nearer — so  Helen  thought — to  the  boy  she  had  known  at 
Brockhurst,  than  to  the  man,  whom  lately,  she  had  been  so 
signally  conscious  that  she  failed  to  know. 

"No,  I  hope  Morabita's  voice  remains  to  her,"  he  con- 
tinued. ^'  Her  absolute  nullity  minus  it  is  disagreeable  to 
think  of.  And  much  as  I  relish  collecting  telling  examples 
of  the  fatuity  of  the  Creator — she,  voiceless,  would  offer  a 
supreme  one — I  would  spare  her  that,  poor  dear.  For  she 
was  really  rather  charming  to  me  at  one  time." 

"  So  it  was  commonly  reported,"  Helen  remarked. 

"Was  it?"  Richard  said  absently. 

Though  as  a  rule  conspicuously  abstemious,  he  had  drunk 
rather  freely  to-night,  and  that  with  an  odd  haste  of  thirst. 
Now  he  touched  his  champagne  tumbler,  intimating  to  Bates, 
the  house-steward — sometime  the  Brockhurst  under  butler — 
that  it  should  be  refilled. 

"I  can't  have  seen  Morabita  for  nearly  three  years,"  he 
went  on.  "  And  my  last  recollections  of  her  are  unfortunate. 
She  had  sent  me  a  box,  in  Vienna  it  was  I  think,  for  the 
Travlata,  She  was  fat  then,  or  rather,  fatter.  Stage  furniture 
leaves  something  to  desire  in  the  way  of  solidity.  In  the 
death  scene  the  middle  of  the  bed  collapsed.  Her  swan-song 
ceased  abruptly.  Her  head  and  heels  were  in  the  air,  and  the 
very  largest  rest  of  her  upon  the  floor,  bed  and  bedclothes 
standing  out  in  a  frill  all  around.  It  was  a  sight  discourag- 
ing to  sentiment.  I  judged  it  kinder  not  to  go  to  supper  with 
her  after  the  performance  that  night/' 


494  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

Richard  paused,  again  drained  his  glass. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said,  "  what  atrocious  nonsense  I 
am  talking  !  " 

"  I  think  I  rather  enjoy  it,"  Madame  de  Vallorbes  answered. 
She  looked  at  the  young  man  sideways,  from  under  her 
delicate  eyelids.  He  was  perfectly  sober — of  that  there  was 
no  question.  Yet  he  was  less  inaccessible,  somehow,  than 
usual.  She  inclined  to  experiment. — "  Only  I  am  sorry  for 
Morabita  in  more  ways  than  one,  poor  wretch.  But  then 
perhaps  I  am  just  a  little  sorry  for  all  those  women  whom  you 
reject,  Richard." 

"  The  women  whom  I  reject  ?  "  he  said  harshly. 

"Yes,  whom  you  reject,"  Helen  repeated. — Then  she 
busied  herself  with  a  small  black  fig,  splitting  it  deftly  open, 
disclosing  the  purple,  and  rose,  and  clear  living  greens  of  the 
flesh  and  innumerable  seeds  of  it,  colours  rich  as  those  of  a 
tropic  sky  at  sunset. — "  And  there  are  so  many  of  those 
women  it  seems  to  me  !  I  am  coming  to  have  a  quite  pathetic 
fellowship  for  them."  She  buried  her  white  teeth  in  the  soft- 
ness of  the  fig. — "  Not  without  reason,  perhaps.  It  is  idle  to 
deny  that  you  are  a  pastmaster  in  the  ungentle  art  of  rejection. 
What  have  you  to  say  in  self-defense,  Dickie  ^  " 

"That  talking  nonsense  appears  to  be  highly  infectious — 
and  that  it  is  a  disagreeably  oppressive  evening." 

Helen  de  Vallorbes  smiled  upon  him,  glanced  quickly  over 
her  shoulder  to  assure  herself  the  servants  were  no  longer 
present — then  spoke,  leaning  across  the  corner  of  the  table 
towards  him,  while  her  eyes  searched  his  with  a  certain  daring 
provocation. 

"  Yes,  I  admit  I  have  finished  my  fig.  Dinner  is  over. 
And  it  is  my  place  to  disappear  according  to  custom." — She 
laid  her  rosy  finger-tips  together,  her  elbows  resting  on  the 
table.  "But  I  am  disinclined  to  disappear.  I  have  a  number 
of  things  to  say.  Take  that  question  of  going  to  the  opera, 
for  instance.  Half  Naples  will  be  there,  and  I  know  more 
than  half  Naples,  and  more  than  half  Naples  knows  me.  I 
do  not  crave  to  run  incontinently  into  the  arms  of  any  of  de 
Vallorbes'  many  relations.  They  were  not  conspicuously 
kind  to  me  when  I  was  here  as  a  girl  and  stood  very  much  in 
need  of  kindness.  So  tne  question  of  going  to  the  San  Carlo, 
you  see,  requires  reflection.     And  then," — her  tone  softened 


RAKE'S  PROGRESS  495 

to  a  most  persuasive  gentleness, — "then,  the  evenings  are  a 
trifle  long  vv^hen  one  is  alone  and  has  nothing  very  satisfactory 
to  think  about.  And  I  have  been  w^orried  to-day,  detestably 
worried." — She  looked  down  at  her  finger-tips.  Her  ex- 
pression became  alm.ost  sombre.  "  In  any  case  I  shall  not 
plague  you  very  much  longer,  Richard,"  she  said  rather 
grandly.  "  I  have  determined  to  remove  myself  bag  and  bag- 
gage. It  is  best,  more  dignified  to  do  so.  Reluctantly  I  own 
that.  Here  have  I  no  abiding  city.  I  wish  I  had,  perhaps, 
but  I  haven't.  Therefore  it  is  useless,  and  worse  than  use- 
less, to  play  at  having  one.     One  must  just  face  the  truth." 

She  looked  full  at  the  young  man,  smiling  at  him,  as  though 
somehow  forgiving  him  a  slight,  an  unkindness,  a  neglect. 

"And  so,  just  because  to  you  it  all  matters  so  uncommonly 
little,  let  us  talk  rather  longer  this  evening." 

She  rose. 

"I'll  go  on  into  the  long  drawing-room,"  she  said.  "The 
windows  were  still  open  there  when  I  came  in  to  dinner. 
The  room  will  be  pleasantly  cool.     You  will  come  ?  " 

And  she  moved  away  quietly,  thoughtfully,  opened  the  high 
double-doors,  left  them  open,  and  that  without  once  looking 
back.  Yet  her  hearing  was  strained  to  catch  the  smallest 
sound  above  that  which  accompanied  her,  namely,  the  rustling 
of  her  dress.  Then  a  queer  shiver  ran  all  down  her  spine 
and  she  set  her  teeth,  for  she  perceived  that  halting,  shuffling 
footsteps  had  begun  to  follow  those  light  and  graceful  foot- 
steps of  her  own. 

"  Ce  n'est  que  le  premier  pas  qui  coute^'*  she  said  to  herself. 
*'  I  have  no  fear  for  the  rest." 

Yet,  crossing  the  near  half  of  the  great  room,  she  sank 
down  on  a  sofa,  thankful  there  was  no  farther  to  go.  In  the 
last  few  minutes  she  had  put  forth  more  will-power,  felt  more 
deeply,  than  she  had  supposed.  Her  knees  gave  under  her. 
It  was  a  relief  to  sit  down. 

Tl/e  many  candles  in  the  cut-glass  chandeliers,  hanging 
from  along  the  centre  of  the  painted  ceiling,  were  lighted,  fill- 
ing the  length  and  breadth  of  the  room  with  a  bland,  diffused 
radiance.  It  touched  picture  and  statue,  tall  mirror,  rich  cur- 
tain, polished  woodwork  of  chair  and  table,  gleaming  ebony 
and  ivory  cabinet.  It  touched  Helen  de  Vallorbes'  bright 
head  and  the  strings  of  pearls  twisted  in  her  hair,  her  white 


49^  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

neck,  the  swell  of  her  bosom,  and  all  that  delicate  wonder  of 
needlework — the  Flanders'  lace — trimming  her  bodice.  It 
lay  on  her  lap,  too,  as  she  leaned  back  in  the  corner  of  the 
sofa,  her  hands  pressed  down  on  either  side  her  thighs — lay 
there  bringing  the  pattern  of  her  brocaded  dress  into  high 
relief.  This  was  a  design  of  pomegranates — leaves,  flowers, 
^nd  fruit — and  of  trailing,  peacock  feathers,  a  couple  of  shades 
lighter  than  the  crocus-yellow  ground.  The  light  took  the 
over-threads  and  stayed  in  them. 

The  window  stood  wide  open  on  to  the  balcony,  the 
elaborately  wrought-ironwork  of  which — scroll  and  vase, 
plunging  dolphin  and  rampant  sea-horse — detached  itself  from 
the  opaque  background  of  the  night.  And  in  at  the  window 
came  luscious  scents  from  the  garden  below,  a  chime  of  fall- 
ing water,  the  music,  faint  and  distant,  in  rising  and  falling 
cadence  of  a  marching  military  band.  In  at  it  also,  and  rising 
superior  to  all  these  in  imperativeness  and  purpose,  came  the 
voice  of  Naples  itself — no  longer  that  of  a  city  of  toil  and 
commerce,  but  that  of  a  city  of  pleasure,  a  city  of  licence, 
until  such  time  as  the  dawn  should  once  again  break,  and  the 
sun  arise,  driving  back  man  and  beast  alike  to  labour,  the  one 
from  merry  sinning,  the  other  from  hard-earned  sleep.  And 
once  again,  but  in  clearer,  more  urgent,  accents,  the  voice  of 
the  city  repeated  its  message  to  Helen  de  Vallorbes,  calling 
aloud  to  her  to  do  even  as  it  was  doing,  namely,  to  wed — to 
wed.  And,  hearing  it,  understanding  that  message,  for  a  little 
space  shame  took  her,  in  face  both  of  its  and  her  own  shame- 
lessness,  so  that  she  closed  her  eyes,  unable  for  the  moment 
to  look  at  Richard  Calmady  as  he  crossed  the  great  room  in 
that  bland  and  yet  generous  light.  But,  almost  immediately, 
his  voice,  cold  and  measured  in  tone,  there  close  beside  her, 
claimed  her  attention. 

"  That  which  you  said  at  dinner  rather  distresses  me, 
Helen." 

Then,  shame  or  no  shame,  Madame  de  Vallorbes,  of  neces- 
sity, opened  her  eyes.  And,  so  doing,  it  needed  all  her  self- 
control  to  repress  a  cry.  She  forced  her  open  hands  down 
very  hard  on  the  mattress  of  the  sofa.  For  Richard  leaned 
his  back  against  the  jamb  of  the  open  window,  and  she  saw 
his  face  and  all  his  poor  figure  in  profile.  His  left  hand  hung 
Straight  at  his  side,  the  tips  of  his  fingers  only  just  not  touch- 


RAKE'S  PROGRESS 


497 


ing  the  floor.     And  again,  as  at  midday  the  spectacle  of  his 
deformity  worked  upon  her  strangely. 

"  What  of  all  that  which  I  said  at  dinner  distresses  you  ?  " 
she  asked  gently,  with  sudden  solicitude. 

"You  showed  me  that  I  have  been  a  wretchedly  negligent 
host." — In  speaking,  the  young  man  turned  his  head  and 
looked  at  her,  paused  a  moment,  almost  startled  by  her  re- 
splendent aspect.  Then  he  looked  down  at  his  own  stunted 
and  defective  limbs.  His  expression  became  very  grim.  He 
raised  his  shoulders  just  perceptibly.  "  I  reproach  myself 
with  having  allowed  you  to  be  so  much  alone.  It  must  have 
been  awfully  dull  for  you." 

"  It  was  a  little  dull,"  Helen  said,  still  gently. 

"  I  ought  to  have  begged  you  to  ask  some  of  the  people  you 
know  in  Naples  to  come  here.  It  was  stupid  of  me  not  to 
think  of  it.  I  need  not  have  seen  them,  neither  need  they 
have  seen  me." 

He  looked  at  her  steadily  again,  as  though  trying  to  fix  her 
image  in  his  memory. 

"  Yes,  it  was  stupid  of  me,"  he  repeated  absently.  "  But  I 
have  got  into  churlish,  bachelor  habits — that  can  hardly  be 
helped,  living  alone,  or  on  board  ship,  as  I  do — and  I  have 
pretty  well  forgotten  how  to  provide  adequately  for  the  enter- 
tainment of  a  guest." 

Oh  !  I  have  had  that  which  I  wanted,  that  which  I  came 
for,"  Helen  answered,  very  charmingly, — "  had  it  in  part,  at 
all  events.  Though  I  could  have  put  up  with  just  a  little 
more  of  it,  Dickie,  perhaps." 

"I  warned  you,  if  you  remember,  that  opportunities  of 
amusement — as  that  word  is  generally  understood — would  be 
limited." 

"  Amusement  ?  "  she  exclaimed,  with  an  almost  tragic 
inflection  of  contempt. 

"  Oh  yes  !  "  he  said, "  amusement  is  not  to  be  despised.  I'd 
give  all  I  am  worth,  half  my  time,  to  be  amused — but  that 
again,  like  hospitality,  is  rather  a  lost  art  with  me.  You 
remember,  I  warned  you  life  at  the  villa  in  these  days  was 
not  precisely  hilarious." 

Helen  clapped  her  hands  together. 

"  Ah  !  you  are  wilfully  obtuse,  you  are  wilfully,  cruelly  pig- 
headed !  "   she  cried.     "  Pardon  me,  dear  Richard,  but  your 


C( 


498  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

attitude  is  enough  to  exasperate  a  saint.  And  I  am  no  saint 
as  yet.  I  am  still  human — radically,  for  my  own  peace  of 
mind  lamentably,  human.  I  am  only  too  capable  of  being 
grieved,  humiliated,  hurt.  But  there,  it  is  folly  to  say  such 
things  to  you  !  You  are  hopelessly  insensible  to  all  that.  So 
I  take  refuge  in  quoting  your  own  words  of  this  morning 
against  you — that  no  explanation  is  lucid  if  the  hearer  refuses 
to  accept  it." 

"  I  am  dull,  no  doubt,  but  honestly  I  fail  to  see  how  that 
remark  of  mine  can  be  held  to  apply  in  the  present  case." 

"  It  applies  quite  desolatingly  well  !  "  Helen  declared,  with 
spirit.  Then  her  manner  softened  into  a  seductiveness  of  for- 
giveness once  again. — "And  so,  dear  Richard,  I  am  glad  that 
I  had  already  determined  to  leave  here  to-morrow.  It  would 
have  been  a  little  too  wretched  to  arrive  at  that  determination 
after  this  conversation.  You  must  go  alone  to  hear  your  old 
flame,  Morabita,  sing.  Only,  if  her  voice  is  still  as  sympa- 
thetic as  of  old,  if  it  moves  you  from  your  present  insensi- 
bility, you  may  read  remembrance  of  some  aspects  of  my  visit 
into  the  witchery  of  it  if  you  like.  It  may  occur  to  you  what 
those  aspects  really  meant." 

Helen  smiled  upon  him,  leaning  a  little  forward.  Her  eyes 
shone,  as  though  looking  out  through  unshed  tears. 

"  It's  not  exactly  flattering  to  one's  vanity  to  be  compelled 
to  depute  to  another  woman  the  making  of  such  things  clear. 
But  it  is  too  evident  I  waste  my  time  in  attempting  to  make 
them  clear  myself.     No  explanation  is  lucid,  et  catera " 

Helen  shook  back  her  head  with  an  extraordinary  charm  of 
half-defiant,  half-tearful  laughter.  She  was  playing  a  game, 
her  whole  intelligence  bent  on  the  playing  of  it  skilfully.  Yet 
she  was  genuinely  touched.  She  was  swayed  by  her  very  real 
emotion.  She  spoke  from  her  heart,  though  every  word,  every 
passing  action,  subserved  her  ultimate  purpose  in  regard  to 
Richard  Calmady. 

"  And,  after  all,  one  must  retain  some  remnant  of  self- 
respect  with  which  to  cover  the  nakedness  of  one's Oh 

yes  !  decidedly,  Morabita's  voice  had  best  do  the  rest." 

Richard  had  moved  from  his  station  in  the  window.  He 
stood  at  the  far  end  of  the  sofa,  resting  his  hands  on  the 
gilde(^  and  carven  arm  of  it*     Now  the  ungainliness  of  his  dc- 


RAKE'S  PROGRESS  499 

formity  was  hidden,  and  his  height  was  greater  than  that  of  his 
companion,  obliging  her  to  look  up  at  him. 

"  I  gave  you  my  word,  Helen,"  he  said,  "  I  have  no 
notion  what  you  are  driving  at." 

"Driving  at,  driving  at?"  she  cried.  "Why,  the  self- 
evident  truth  that  you  are  forcing  me  rather  brutally  to  pay 
the  full  price  of  my  weakness  in  coming  here,  in  permitting 
myself  the  indulgence  of  seeing  you  again.  You  told  me 
directly  I  arrived,  with  rather  cynical  frankness,  that  I  had  not 
changed.  That  is  quite  true.  What  I  was  at  Brockhurst, 
four  years  ago,  what  I  then  felt,  that  I  am  and  that  I  feel  still. 
Oh  !  you  have  nothing  to  reproach  yourself  with  in  defect  of 
plain  speaking,  or  excess  of  amiable  subterfuge  !  You  hit  out 
very  straight  from  the  shoulder !  Directly  I  arrived  you 
also  told  me  how  you  had  devoted  this  place — with  which, 
after  all,  I  am  not  wholly  unconnected — to  the  cult,  to  the 
ideal  worship,  of  a  woman  whom  you  loved." 

"  So  I  have  devoted  it,"  Richard  said. 

"  And  yet  I  was  weak  enough  to  remain  !  " 

The  young  man's  face  relaxed,  but  its  expression  remained 
enigmatic. 

"  And  why  not  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Because,  in  remaining,  I  have  laid  myself  open  to  miscon- 
struction, to  all  manner  of  pains  and  penalties,  not  easy  to  be 
endured,  to  the  odious  certainty  of  appearing  contemptible  in 
your  estimation  as  well  as  in  my  own." 

Helen  patted  her  pretty  foot  upon  the  floor  in  a  small  frenzy 
of  irritation. 

"  How  can  I  hope  to  escape,  since  even  the  precious  being 
whom  you  affect  to  worship  you  keep  sternly  at  arm's  length, 
that  is  among  the  other  pleasing  things  you  confided  to  me 
immediately  on  my  arrival — lest,  seen  at  close  quarters,  she 
should  fall  below  your  requirements  and  so  you  should  suffer 
disillusion.  Ah  !  you  are  frightfully  cold-blooded,  repulsively 
inhuman.  Whether  you  judge  others  by  yourself,  reckoning 
them  equally  devoid  of  natural  feeling,  or  whether  you  find  a 
vindictive  relish  in  rejecting  the  friendship  and  affection  so 
lavishly  offered  you 


i 


"Is  it  offered  lavishly  ?     That  comes  as  news  to  me,"  he 
ut  in. 

Ah !  but  it  is.     And   I  leave  you  to  picture  the  pleasing 


500  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

entertainment  afforded  the  offerer  in  seeing  you  ignore  the 
offering,  or,  worse  still,  take  it,  examine  it,  and  throw  it  aside 
like  a  dirty  rag  !  In  one  case  you  underline  your  rejection 
almost  to  the  point  of  insult." 

"  This  is  very  instructive.  I  am  learning  a  whole  lot  about 
myself,"  Richard  said  coolly. 

"  But  look,"  Madame  de  Vallorbes  cried,  "do  you  not  pre- 
fer exposing  yourself  to  the  probability  of  serious  illness 
rather  than  remain  under  the  same  roof  with  me  ?  The  in- 
ference hits  one  in  the  face.  To  you  the  pestilential  exha- 
lations, the  unspeakable  abominations,  of  Naples  harbour  ap- 
pear less  dangerous  than  my  near  neighbourhood." 

"You  put  it  more  strongly  than  I  should,"  he  answered, 
smiling.  "  Yet,  from  a  certain  standpoint,  that  may  very  well 
be  true." 

For  an  instant  Helen  hesitated.  Her  Intelligence,  for  all 
its  alertness,  was  strained  exactly  to  appraise  the  value  of  his 
words,  neither  over,  nor  under,  rating  it.  And  her  eyes 
searched  his  with  a  certain  boldness  and  imperiousness  of 
gaze.  Richard,  meanwhile,  folding  his  arms  upon  the  carven 
and  gilt  frame  of  the  sofa,  looked  back  at  her,  smiling  still,  at 
once  ironically  and  very  sadly.  Then  swift  assurance  came 
to  her  of  the  brazen  card  she  had  best  play.  But,  playing  It, 
she  was  constrained  to  avert  her  eyes  and  set  her  glance  pen- 
sively upon  the  light-visited  surface  of  her  crocus-yellow, 
silken  lap. 

"  I  will  do  my  best  possible  to  accept  your  nightly  journeys  as 
a  compliment  in  disguise,  then,"  she  said,  quite  softly.  "  For 
truly,  when  I  come  to  think  of  it,  were  she,  herself,  here — 
she,  the  woman  you  so  religiously  admire  that  you  take  elab- 
orate pains  to  avoid  having  anything  on  earth  to  do  with  her 
— were  she  herself  here  you  could  hardly  take  more  exten- 
sive measures  to  secure  yourself  against  risk  of  disappoint- 
ment, hardly  exercise  a  greater  rage  of  caution  !  " 

"  Perhaps  that's  just  It.  Perhaps  you  have  arrived  at  it  all 
at  last.     Perhaps  she  is  here,"  he  said. 

And  he  turned  away,  steadying  himself  with  one  hand 
against  the  jamb  of  the  window,  and  shuffled  out  slowly, 
laboriously,  onto  the  balcony  into  the  night. 

For  a  quite  perceptible  length  of  time  Helen  de  Vallorbes 
continued  to  contemplate  the  light-visited  surface  of  her  cro- 


RAKE'S  PROGRESS  501 

cus-ycllow,  silken  lap.  She  followed  the  lines  of  the  rich 
pattern — pomegranate,  fruit  and  blossom,  trailing  peacock's 
feather.  For  by  such  mechanical  employment  alone  could 
she  keep  the  immensity  of  her  excitement  and  of  her  triumph 
in  check.  To  shout  aloud,  to  dance,  to  run  wildly  to  and 
fro,  would  have  been  only  too  possible  to  her  just  then.  All 
that  for  which  she  had  schemed,  had  ruled  herself  discreetly, 
had  ridden  a  waiting  race,  had  been  hers,  in  fact,  from  the 
first — the  prize  adjudged  before  ever  she  left  the  starting-post. 
She  held  this  man  in  the  hollow  of  her  hand,  and  that  by  no 
result  of  cunning  artifice,  but  by  right  divine  of  beauty  and 
wit  and  the  manifold  seductions  of  her  richly-endowed  per- 
sonality. And,  thinking  of  that,  she  clenched  her  dainty  fists, 
opened  them  again,  and  again  clenched  them,  upon  the  yield- 
ing mattress  of  the  sofa,  given  over  to  an  ecstasy  of  physical 
enjoyment,  weaving  even  as,  with  clawed  and  padded  paws, 
her  prototype  the  she-panther  might.  Slowly  she  raised  her 
downcast  eyes  and  looked  after  Richard  Calmady,  his  figure 
a  blackness,  as  of  vacancy,  against  the  elaborate  wrought- 
ironwork  of  the  balcony.  And  so  doing,  an  adorable  sensa- 
tion moved  her,  at  once  of  hungry  tenderness  and  of  fear — 
fear  of  something  unknown,  in  a  way  fundamental,  incalcu- 
lable, the  like  of  which  she  had  never  experienced  before. 
Ah  !  indeed,  of  all  her  many  loves,  here  was  the  crown  and 
climax !  Yet,  in  the  midst  of  her  very  vital  rapture,  she 
could  still  find  time  for  remembrance  of  the  little,  crescent- 
shaped  scar  upon  her  temple,  and  for  remembrance  of  Kath- 
erine  Calmady,  who  had,  unwittingly,  fixed  that  blemish  upon 
her  and  had  also  more  than  once  frustrated  her  designs.  This 
time  frustration  was  not  possible.  She  was  about  to  revenge 
the  infliction  of  that  little  scar  !  And,  at  the  same  time  the 
intellectual  part  of  her  was  agreeably  intrigued,  trying  to  dis- 
entangle the  why  and  wherefore  of  Richard's  late  action  and 
utterances.  While  self-love  was  gratified  to  the  highest 
height  of  its  ambition  by  the  knowledge  that  not  only  in  his 
heart  had  she  long  reigned,  but  that  he  had  dedicated  time  and 
wealth  and  refined  ingenuity  to  the  idea  of  her,  to  her  worship, 
to  the  making  of  this,  her  former  dwelling-place,  into  a  temple 
for  her  honour,  a  splendid  witness  to  her  victorious  charm,  a 
shrine  not  unfitting  to  contain  the  idol  of  his  imagination. 
For  a  little  space  she  rested  in  all  this,  savouring  the  sweet- 


502  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

ness  of  it  as  some  odour  of  costly  sacrifice.  For  whatever 
her  sins  and  lapses,  Helen  de  Vallorbes  had  the  fine  aesthetic 
appreciations,  as  well  as  the  inevitable  animality,  of  the  great 
courtesan.  The  artist  was  at  least  as  present  in  her  as  the 
whore.  And  it  was  not,  therefore,  until  realisation  of  her 
present  felicity  was  complete,  until  it  had  soaked  into  her,  so 
to  speak,  to  the  extent  of  a  delicious  familiarity,  that  she  was 
disposed  to  seek  change  of  posture  or  of  place.  Then,  at 
last,  softly,  languidly,  for  indeed  she  was  somewhat  spent  by 
the  manifold  emotions  of  the  day,  she  rose  and  followed  Rich- 
ard into  the  starless,  low-lying  night.  Her  first  words  were 
very  simple,  yet  to  herself  charged  with  far-reaching  meaning 
— as  a  little  key  may  give  access  to  a  treasure-chest  contain- 
ing riches  of  fabulous  worth. 

"  Richard,  is  it  really  true,  that  which  you  have  told  me  ?  " 

"  What  conceivable  object  could  I  have  in  lying  ?  " 

"  Then  why  have  you  delayed  ? — why  wasted  the  precious 
days — the  precious  months  and  years,  if  it  comes  to  that  ?  " 

"  How  in  honour  and  decency  could  I  do  otherwise — cir- 
cumstances being  such  as  they  are,  I  being  that  which  I  am  ?  " 

The  two  voices  were  in  notable  contrast.  Both  were  low, 
both  were  penetrated  by  feeling.  But  the  man's  was  hoarse 
and  rasping,  the  woman's  smooth  and  soft  as  milk. 

"  Ah  !  it  is  the  old  story  !  "  she  said.  "  Will  you  never 
comprehend,  Dickie,  that  what  is  to  you  hateful  in  yourself, 
may  to  some  one  else  be  the  last  word  of  attraction,  of  seduc- 
tion, even  ?  " 

"  God  forbid  I  should  ever  comprehend  that !  "  he  answered. 
"  When  I  take  to  glorying  in  my  shame,  pluming  myself 
upon  my  abnormality,  then,  indeed,  I  become  beyond  all  ex- 
ample loathsome.  The  most  deplorable  moment  of  my  very 
inglorious  career  will  be  precisely  that  in  which  I  cease  to 
look  at  myself  with  dispassionate  contempt." 

Helen  knelt  down,  resting  her  beautiful  arms  upon  the  dark 
hand-rail  of  the  balcony,  letting  her  wrists  droop  over  it  into 
the  outer  dimness.  The  bland  light  from  the  open  window 
dwelt  on  her  kneeling  figure  and  bowed  head.  But  it  was  as;^ 
well,  perhaps,  that  the  night  dropped  a  veil  upon  her  face. 

"And  yet  so  it  is,"  she  said.  "You  may  repudiate  the 
idea,  but  the  fact  remains.  I  do  not  say  it  would  affect  all 
women  alike — affect  those,  for  instance,  whose  conception  of 


RAKE'S  PROGRESS  503 

love,  and  of  the  relation  between  man  and  woman,  is  depend- 
ent upon  the  slightly  improper  and  very  tedious  marriage 
service  as  authorised  by  the  English  Church.  Let  the  con- 
ventional be  conventional  still  !  So  much  the  better  if  you 
don't  appeal  to  them — meagre,  timid,  inadequate,  respectable 
— a  generation  of  fashion-plates  with  a  sixpenny  book  of  eti- 
quette, moral  and  social,  stuck  inside  them  to  serve  for  a 
soul." 

Helen's  voice  broke  in  a  little  spasm  of  laughter,  and  her 
hands  began,  unconsciously,  to  open  and  close,  open  and  close, 
weaving  in  soft,  outer  darkness. 

"We  may  leave  them  out  of  the  argument. — But  there  re- 
main the  elect,  Richard,  among  whom  I  dare  count  myself. 
And  over  them,  never  doubt  it,  just  that  which  you  hate  and 
which  appears  at  first  sight  to  separate  you  so  cruelly  from 
other  men,  gives  you  a  strange  empire.  You  stimulate,  you 
arrest,  you  satisfy  one's  imagination,  as  does  the  spectacle  of 
some  great  drama.  You  are  at  once  enslaved  and  emanci- 
pated by  this  thing — to  you  hateful,  to  me  adorable — beyond 
all  measure  of  bondage  or  freedom  inflicted  upon,  or  enjoyed 
by,  other  men.  And  in  this,  just  this,  lies  magnificent  com- 
pensation if  you  would  but  see  it.  I  have  always  known  that 
— known  that  if  you  would  put  aside  your  arrogance  and  pride, 
and  yield  yourself  a  little,  it  was  possible  to  love  you,  and  give 
you  such  joy  in  loving  as  one  could  give  to  no  one  else  on 
earth." 

Her  voice  sweetened  yet  more.  She  leaned  forward,  press- 
ing her  bosom  against  the  rough  ironwork  of  the  balcony. 

"  I  knew  that,  from  the  first  hour  we  met,  in  the  variegated, 
autumn  sunshine,  upon  the  greensward,  before  the  white 
summer-house  overlooking  that  noble,  English,  woodland 
view.  I  saw  you,  and  so  doing  I  saw  mysteries  of  joy  in  my- 
self unimagined  by  me  before.  It  went  very  hard  with  me 
then,  Richard.     It  has  gone  very  hard  with  me  ever  since." 

Madame  de  Vallorbes'  words  died  away  in  a  grave  and  delicate 
whisper.  But  she  did  not  turn  her  head,  nor  did  Richard  speak. 
Only,  close  there  beside  her,  she  heard  him  breathe,  panting 
short  and  quick  even  as  a  dog  pants,  while  a  certain  vibration 
seemed  to  run  along  the  rough  ironwork  against  which  she 
leaned.  And  by  these  signs  Helen  judged  her  speech,  though 
unanswered,  had  not  been  wholly  in  vain.     From  below,  the 


564  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

luscious  fragrance  of  the  garden,  the  chime  of  falling  water, 
and  the  urgent  voice  of  the  painted  pleasure-city  came  up 
about  her.  Night  had  veiled  the  face  of  Naples,  even  as 
Helen's  own.  Yet  lines  of  innumerable  lights  described  the 
suave  curve  of  the  bay,  climbed  the  heights  of  Posilipo,  were 
doubled  in  the  oily  waters  of  the  harbour,  spread  abroad  allur- 
ing gaiety  in  the  wide  piazzas,  and  shone  like  watchful  and 
soliciting  eyes  from  out  the  darkness  of  narrow  street,  steep 
lane,  and  cutthroat  alley.  While,  above  all  that,  high  up- 
lifted against  the  opacity  of  the  starless  sky,  a  blood-red 
beacon  burned  on  the  summit  of  Vesuvius,  the  sombre  glow 
of  it  reflected  upon  the  underside  of  the  masses  of  down- 
ward-rolling smoke  as  upon  the  belly  of  some  slow-crawling, 
monstrous  serpent. 

Suddenly  Helen  spoke  once  again,  and  with  apparent  in- 
consequence. 

"  Richard,  you  must  have  known  she  could  never  satisfy 
you — why  did  you  try  to  marry  Constance  Quayle  ?  " 

"  To  escape." 

"  From  whom — from  me  ?  " 

"  From  myself,  which  is  much  the  same  thing  as  saying 
from  you,  I  suppose." 

"  And  you  could  not  escape  ?  " 

"  So  it  seems." 

"  But — but,  dear  Richard,"  she  said  plaintively,  yet  with 
very  winning  sweetness,  "  why,  after  all,  should  you  want  so 
desperately  to  escape  ?  " 

Richard  moved  a  little  farther  from  her. 

"  I  have  already  explained  that  to  you,  to  the  point  of  in- 
sult, so  you  tell  me,"  he  said.  "  Surely  it  is  unnecessary  to  go 
over  the  ground  again  ?  " 

"You  carry  your  idealism  to  the  verge  of  slight  absurdity," 
she  answered.  "  Oh  !  you  of  altogether  too  little  faith,  how 
should  you  gauge  the  full  flavour  of  the  fruit  till  you  have  set 
your  teeth  in  it  ?  Better,  far  better,  be  a  sacramentalist  like 
me  and  embrace  the  idea  through  the  act,  than  refuse  the  act 
in  dread  of  imperiling  the  dominion  of  the  idea.  You  put  the 
cart  before  the  horse  with  a  vengeance,  Dickie !  There's 
such  a  thing  as  being  so  reverently-minded  towards  your  god 
that  he  ceases  to  be  the  very  least  profit  or  use  to  you." 

And  again  she  heard  that  panting  breath  beside  her.     Again 


RAKE'S  PROGRESS  505 

laughter  bubbled  up  in  her  fair  throat,  and  her  hands  fell  ta 
weaving  the  soft,  outer  darkness. 

"  You  must  perceive  that  it  cannot  end  here  and  thus,"  she 
said  presently. 

"  Of  course  not,"  he  answered.  Then,  after  a  moment's 
pause,  he  added  coldly  enough  : — ^'  I  foresaw  that,  so  I  gave 
orders  yesterday  that  the  yacht  was  not  to  be  laid  up,  but  only 
to  coal  and  provision,  and  undergo  some  imperatively  necessary- 
repairs.     She  should  be  ready  for  sea  by  the  end  of  the  week." 

Helen  turned  sideways,  and  the  bland  light,  from  the  room, 
within,  touched  her  face  now  as  well  as  her  kneeling  figure. 

"  And  then,  and  then  ?  "  she  demanded,  almost  violently. 

"  Then  I  shall  go,"  Richard  replied.  "  Where,  I  do  nor 
yet  know,  but  as  far,  anyhow,  as  the  coal  in  the  yacht's 
bunkers  will  drive  her.  Distance  is  more  important  than 
locality  just  now.  And  I  leave  you  here  at  the  villa,  Helen- 
Do  not  regret  that  you  came.     I  don't." 

He  too  had  turned  to  the  light,  which  revealed  his  face 
ravaged  and  aged  by  stress  of  emotion,  revealed  too  the  home— 
lessness,  as  of  empty  space,  resident  in  his  eyes. 

"  I  shall  be  glad  to  remember  the  place  pleases  and  speaks 
to  you.  It  has  been  rather  a  haven  of  rest  to  me  during  these 
last  two  years.  You  would  have  had  it  at  my  death,  in  any 
cajse.     You  have  it  a  little  sooner — that's  all." 

But  Helen  held  out  her  arms. 

"  The  villa,  the  villa,"  she  cried,  "  what  do  I  want  with, 
that !  God  in  heaven,  are  you  utterly  devoid  of  all  sensibility^ 
all  heart  ?  Or  are  you  afraid — afraid  even  yet,  oh,  very 
chicken-livered  lover — that  behind  the  beauty  of  Naples  you 
may  find  the  filth  ?  It  is  not  so,  Dickie.  It  is  not  so,  I  tell 
you. — Look  at  me.  What  would  you  have  more  ?  Surely, 
for  any  man,  my  love  is  good  enough  !  " 

And  then  hurriedly,  with  a  rustling  of  silken  skirts,  hot 
with  anger  from  head  to  heel,  she  sprang  to  her  feet. 

Across  the  room  one  of  the  men-servants  advanced. 

"  The  carriage  is  at  the  door,  sir,"  he  said. 

And  Madame  de  Vallorbes'  voice  broke  in  with  a  singular 
lightness  and  nonchalance  : — 

^^  Surely  it  is  rather  imprudent  to  go  out  again  to-night  ? 
You  told  me,  at  dinner,  you  were  not  well,  that  you  had  had 
a  touch  of  fever." 


So6  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

She  held  out  her  hand,  smiling  serenely. 

"  Be  advised,"  she  said — "  avoid  malaria.  I  shall  see  you 
before  I  go  to-morrow  ?  Yes — an  afternoon  train,  I  think. 
Good-night,  we  meet  at  breakfast  as  usual." 

She  stepped  in  at  the  window,  gathered  up  certain  small 
properties — a  gold  scent-bottle,  one  or  two  books,  a  blotting- 
case,  as  with  a  view  to  final  packing  and  departure.  Just  as 
she  reached  the  door  she  heard  Richard  say  curtly  : — 

"  Send  the  carriage  round.     I  shall  not  want  it  to-night." 

But  even  so  Helen  did  not  turn  back.  On  the  contrary, 
she  ran,  light  of  foot  as  the  little  dancer,  of  long  ago,  with 
blush-roses  in  her  hat,  through  all  the  suite  of  rooms  to  her 
own  sea-blue,  sea-green  bedchamber,  and  there,  sitting  down 
before  the  toilet-table,  greeted  her  own  radiant  image  in  the 
glass.  Her  lips  were  very  red.  Her  eyes  shone  like  pale 
stars  on  a  windy  night. 

"  Quick,  quick,  undress  me,  Zelie  !  Put  me  to  bed.  I  am 
simply  expiring  of  fatigue,"  she  said. 


CHAPTER  IX 

CONCERNING   THAT   DAUGHTER   OF   CUPID    AND    PSYCHE  WHOM 
MEN    CALL    VOLUPTAS 

'  I  ^HE  furniture,  though  otherwise  of  the  customary  pro- 
"^  portions,  had  all  been  dwarfedo  This  had  been 
achieved  in  some  cases  by  ingenious  design  in  its  construction, 
in  others  by  the  simple  process  of  cutting  down,  thus  reduc- 
ing table  and  chair,  couch  and  bureau,  in  itself  of  whatever 
grace  of  style,  dignity  of  age,  or  fineness  of  workmanship,  to 
an  equality  of  uncomely  degradation  in  respect  of  height. 
The  resultant  effect  was  of  false  perspective.  Nor  was  this 
unpleasing  effect  lessened  by  the  proportions  of  the  room 
itself.  In  common  with  all  those  of  the  entresol^  it  was 
noticeably  low  in  relation  to  its  length  and  width,  while  the 
stunted  vaultings  of  its  darkly-frescoed  ceiling  produced  an 
impression  of  heaviness  rather  than  of  space.  Bookcases, 
dwarfed  as  were  all  the  other  furnishings,  lined  the  walls  to 
within    about  two  feet  of  the  spring  of   the   said   vaulting. 


RAKE'S  PROGRESS  507 

Made  of  red  cedar  and  unpolished,  the  cornices  and  uprights 
of  them  were  carved  with  arabesques  in  high  relief.  An 
antique,  Persian  carpet,  sombre  in  colouring  and  of  great 
value,  covered  the  greater  portion  of  the  pale  pink  and  gray 
mosaic  pavement  of  the  floor.  Thick,  rusty-red,  Genoa- 
velvet  curtains  were  drawn  over  each  low,  square  window. 
A  fire  of  logs  burned  on  the  open  hearth.  And  this  notwith- 
standing the  unaccustomed  warmth  of  the  outside  air,  did  but 
temper  the  chill  atmosphere  of  the  room  and  serve  to  draw  a 
faint  aroma  from  the  carven  cedar  wood. 

It  was  here,  to  his  library, — carried  down-stairs  by  his  men- 
servants  as  a  helpless  baby-child  might  be, — that  Richard 
Calmady  had  come  when  Helen  de  Vallorbes  departed  so 
blithely  to  her  bedchamber.  And  it  was  here  he  remained, 
though  nearly  two  hours  had  elapsed  since  then,  finding  sleep 
impossible. 

For  the  wakefulness  and  unrest  of  rapidly  breeding  illness: 
were  upon  him.  His  senses  and  his  will  had  been  in  very 
active  conflict.  Desire  had  licked  him,  as  with  fiery  tongues^ 
driving  him  onward.  Honour,  self-contempt  in  face  of  temp- 
tation to  sensual  indulgence,  an  aspiration  after  somewhat 
stoic  asceticism  which  had  come  to  influence  his  action  of 
late,  held  him  back.  But  now,  here  and  alone,  the  immedi- 
ately provoking  cause  of  passion  removed,  reaction  agamst  the 
strain  of  all  that  had  very  sensibly  set  in.  He  felt  strangely 
astray,  as  though  drifting  at  hazard  upon  the  waters  of  an  un- 
quiet, mist-blinded  sea.  He  was  conscious  of  a  deep-seated 
preoccupation  regarding  some  matter,  which  he  was  alike  un- 
able to  forget  or  to  define.  Formless  images  perplexed  his 
vision.  Formless  thoughts  pursued  one  another,  as  with  the 
hurry  of  rumoured  calamity,  through  his  mind.  A  desolating 
apprehension  of  things  insufliciently  developed,  of  the  incon- 
clusive, the  immature,  the  unattained,  of  things  mutilated, 
things  unfinished,  born  out  of  due  time  and  incomplete,  op- 
pressed his  fancy.  Even  the  events  of  the  last  few  hours,  in 
which  he  had  played  so  considerable  a  part,  took  on  a  shadowy 
semblance,  ceased  to  appeal  to  him  as  realities,  began  to  merge 
themselves  in  that  all-pervading  apprehension  of  defectiveness, 
of  that  which  is  wanting,  lopped  off,  so  to  speak,  and  docked. 
It  was  to  him  as  though  all  natural,  common-sense  relations 
were  in  abeyance,  as  though  his  own,  usually  precise,  mental 


5o8  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

processes  were  divorced  from  reason  and  experience,  had  got 
out  of  perspective,  in  short — even  as  this  low,  wide,  cedar- 
scented  library,  of  which  the  vaulted  ceiling  seemed  to  ap- 
proach unduly  close  to  the  mosaic,  marble  floor,  and  all  its 
dwarfed  furnishings,  its  squat  tables  and  almost  legless  chairs, 
had  got  out  of  perspective. 

The  alternate  purposeless  energy  and  weariful  weakness  of 
fever,  just  as  the  alternate  dry  flush  and  trembling  chill  of  it, 
distressed  him.  He  had  slipped  on  a  smoking-coat,  but  even 
the  weight  of  this  thin,  silk  garment  seemed  oppressive,  al- 
though, now  and  again,  he  felt  as  though  around  his  middle 
he  wore  a  belt  of  ice.  Not  without  considerable  exertion  he 
rolled  forward  a  couch — wide,  high-backed,  legless,  mounted 
upon  little  wheels — to  the  vicinity  of  the  fire.  He  drew  him- 
self up  on  to  it  and  rested  among  the  piled-up  cushions. 
Perhaps,  if  he  waited,  exercising  patience,  sleep  might  merci- 
fully visit  him  and  deliver  him  from  this  intolerable  confusion 
of  mind.  Deliver  him,  too,  from  that  hideous  apprehension 
of  universal  mutilation,  of  maimed  purposes,  maimed  happen- 
ings, of  a  world  peopled  by  beings  maimed  as  he  was  himself, 
but  after  a  more  subtle  and  intimate  fashion,  a  fashion  intel- 
lectual or  moral  rather  than  merely  physical,  so  that  they  had 
to  him,  just  now,  an  added  hatefulness  of  specious  lying,  since 
to  ordinary  seeing  they  appeared  whole,  while  whole  they 
truly  and  actually  were  not. 

Sternly  he  tried  to  shake  himself  free  of  these  morbid  fan- 
cies, to  bring  his  imagination  under  control  and  force  himself 
once  again  to  join  hands  with  reality  and  common  sense. 
And,  to  this  end,  he  turned  his  attention  to  the  consideration 
of  practical  matters.  He  dwelt  on  the  details  of  the  coaling 
and  revictualing  of  his  yacht,  upon  the  objective  of  the  voyage 
upon  which  he  proposed  to  start  a  few  days  hence.  He  re- 
viewed the  letters  which  must  be  written  and  the  arrangements 
which  must  be  made  with  a  view  to  putting  his  cousin  legally 
in  possession  of  the  villa,  the  rent  of  which  he  proposed  still 
to  pay  to  her  husband.  This  suite  of  rooms  he  would  re- 
tain for  his  own  use.  That  was  necessary,  obligatory.  Yet, 
why  must  he  retain  it  ?  He  did  not  propose  to  return  and 
live  here  at  any  future  time.  This  episode  was  over — or 
rather,  had  it  not  simply  failed  of  completion  ?  Was  it  not, 
like  all  the  rest,  maimed,  lopped  off  ungainly,  docked  ?     Then, 


RAKE'S  PROGRESS 


509 


where  came  in  the  obligation  to  reserve  these  rooms  ?  He 
could  not  remember.  Yet  he  knew  that  he  was  compelled 
to  do  so,  because — because 

And,  once  again,  Richard's  power  of  concentration  bro-ke 
down.  Once  again  his  thought  eluded  him,  becoming  tangled, 
fugitive,  not  to  be  grasped.  While,  like  swarms  of  shrill 
squeaking  bats  disturbed  in  the  recesses  of  some  age-old  cav- 
ern by  sudden  intrusion  of  voices  and  of  lights,  half-formed 
visions,  half-formed  ideas,  once  again,  flapped  duskily  about 
him,  torturing  in  their  multiplicity  alike  to  his  senses  and  his 
brain.  He  fought  with  them,  striving  to  beat  them  ofF  in  a 
madness  of  disgust,  half  suffocated  by  the  fanning  of  their 
foul  and  stifling  wings.  Then,  exhausted  by  the  conflict,  he 
stumbled  and  fell,  while  they  closed  down  on  him.  And  he^ 
losing  consciousness,  slept. 

That  unconsciousness  lasted  in  point  of  fact  but  for  a  few 
minutes.  Yet  to  Richard  those  minutes  were  as  years,  as 
centuries.  At  length,  still  heavy  with  dreamless  slumber,  he 
was  aware  of  the  stealthy  turning  of  a  key  in  a  lock.  Little 
padding  foot-falls,  soft  as  those  of  some  strong,  yet  dainty, 
cat-creature  crossed  the  carpet.  A  whisper  of  silk  came  along 
with  them,  like  the  murmur  of  the  breeze  in  an  oak  grove  on 
a  clear,  hot,  summer  noon,  or  the  sibilant  ripple  of  the  sea 
upon  spaces  of  fine-ribbed,  yellow  sand.  And  the  impression 
produced  upon  Richard  was  delicious,  as  of  one  passing  from 
a  close  room  into  the  open  air.  Confusion  and  exhaustion 
left  him.  Energy  returned.  The  energy  of  breeding  fever 
merely,  yet  to  him  it  appeared  that  of  refreshment,  of  re- 
newed and  abounding  health.  He  was  conscious,  too,  of  a 
will  outside  himself,  acting  upon  his  will — a  will  self-secure, 
impregnable,  working  with  triumphant  daring  towards  a  single 
end.  It  certainly  was  unmaimed — in  its  present  manifestation 
in  any  case.  It  told,  and  with  assurance,  of  completion,  of 
attainment.  Yielding  himself  to  it,  with  something  of  the 
recklessness  a  man  yields  himself  to  the  poison  which  yet 
promises  relief,  Richard  opened  his  eyes. 

Before  him  stood  Helen  de  Vallorbcs.  In  one  hand  she 
carried  a  little  lamp.  Her  shining  hair  curled  low  upon  her 
forehead,  half  concealed  her  pretty  ears,  and  lay  upon  her 
shoulders  like  a  little,  golden  cape.  And,  from  out  this  bright^ 
ness  of  her  hair,  the  exultant  laughter  bubbling  in  her  throaty 


5IO  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

the  small  lamp  carried  high  in  one  hand,  she  looked  down  at 
Richard  Calmady. 

Not  till  the  gray  of  a  rain-washed,  windy  morning  had 
come,  and  Naples  had  put  off  its  merry  sinning,  changing 
from  a  city  of  pleasure  to  a  city  of  labour  and,  too  often,  of 
callously  inflicted  pain,  did  Helen  de  Vail orbes  leave  the  cedar- 
scented  library.  The  fire  of  logs  had  burnt  itself  out  upon 
the  hearth,  and  other  fires,  perhaps,  had  pretty  thoroughly 
burnt  themselves  out  likewise.  Then,  with  the  extinguished 
lamp  in  one  hand  and  her  high-heeled,  cloth-of-gold  slippers 
in  the  other,  she  had  run  swiftly,  barefoot,  up  the  cold,  mar- 
ble stairs,  through  the  suite  of  lofty  rooms,  her  image,  in  the 
bleak  dimness  of  the  wet  morning,  giving  back  by  their  tall 
mirrors  as  that  of  no  mortal  woman  but  some  fear-driven, 
hurrying  ghost.  Carefully  closing  the  door  of  the  bedcham- 
ber behind  her,  she  threw  her  dressing-gown  aside  and  buried 
herself  in  the  luxurious  softness  of  the  unslept-in  bed.  And 
she  was  only  just  in  time.  Servants  began  to  move  to  and 
fro.     The  house  was  awake. 


RAKE*S  PROGRESS  511 


CHAPTER  X 

THE    ABOMINATION    OF    DESOLATION 

CULLENLY,  persistently,  the  rain  came  down.  In  the 
^  harbour  the  wash  was  just  sufficient  to  make  the  raveled 
fruit-baskets,  the  shredded  vegetables,  the  crusts  and  ofFal 
thrown  out  from  the  galleys,  heave  and  sway  upon  the  oily 
surface  of  the  water,  while  screaming  gulls  dropped  greedily 
upon  the  floating  refuse,  and  rising,  circled  over  the  blacky 
liquid  lanes  and  open  spaces  between  the  hulls  of  the  many 
ships.  But  it  was  insufficient  to  lift  the  yacht,  tied  up  to  the 
southern  quay  of  the  Porto  Grande.  She  lay  there  inert  and 
in  somewhat  sorry  plight  under  the  steady  downpour.  For 
the  moment  all  the  winsome  devilry  of  a  smart,  sea-going 
craft  was  dead  in  her,  and  she  sulked,  ashamed  through  all  her 
eight  hundred  tons  of  wood  and  iron,  copper,  brass,  and  steel. 
For  she  was  coaling,  over-deck,  and  was  grimy  from  stem  to 
stern.  While,  arrayed  in  the  cast  clothes  of  all  Europe,  tat- 
tered, undersized,  gesticulating,  the  human  scum  of  Naples 
swarmed  up  the  steep,  narrow  planks  from  the  inky  lighters 
and  in  over  her  side. 

"  Beastly  dirty  job  this.  Shan't  get  her  paint  clean  under  a 
week !  "  the  first  mate  grumbled  to  his  companion,  the  second 
mate — a  dark-haired,  dreamy-eyed.  West-country  lad,  but  just 
out  of  his  teens. 

The  two  officers,  in  dripping  oilskins,  stood  at  the  gangway 
checking  the  tally  of  coal-baskets  as  they  came  on  board. 
Just  now  there  was  a  pause  in  the  black  procession,  as  an 
empty  lighter  sheered  off,  making  room  for  a  full  one  to  come 
alongside,  thus  rendering  conversation  momentarily  possible. 

"  Pity  the  boss  couldn't  have  stayed  on  shore  till  we  were 
through  with  it  and  cleaned  up  a  bit,"  the  speaker  continued. 
"  Makes  the  old  man  no  end  waxy  to  have  any  one  on  board 
when  the  yacht's  like  she  is.  I  don't  blame  him.  She's  as 
neat  and  pretty  as  a  white  daisy  in  a  green  pasture  when  she's 
away  to  sea.     And  now,  poor  little  soul,  she's  a  regular  slut." 


512  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

"  I  know  Pd  'ave  stayed  ashore  fast  enough  if  I  was  the 
boss/'  the  boy  said,  half  wistfully.  "  That  villa  of  his  is 
like  a  piece  of  poetry.  I  keep  on  saying  over  to  myself  how 
it  looks.'' 

"  Oh  !  it's  not  so  bad  for  foreign  parts,"  the  senior  officer 
replied.  "  And  you're  young  yet  and  soft,  Penberthy.  You'll 
come  of  that  presently.  England's  best  for  houses,  town  and 
country,  and  most  other  things — women,  and  fights,  and  even 
sunshine,  for  when  you  do  get  sunshine  at  home  there's  no 
spite  in  it. — Hi !  there  you  ganger,"  he  shouted  suddenly,  and 
resentfully,  leaning  out  over  the  bulwarks,  "  hurry  'em  up  a 
bit,  can't  you  ?  You  don't  suppose  I  mean  to  stand  here  till 
the  second  anniversary  of  the  Day  of  Judgment,  watching 
your  blithering,  chicken-shanked  macaronies  suck  rotten 
oranges,  do  you  ?  Start  'em  up  again.  Whatever  are  you 
waiting  for,  man  ?     Start  'em  up,  I  say." 

The  boy's  dreamy  eyes,  full  of  unwritten  verse,  dwelt  with 
a  curious  indifference  upon  the  broken  procession  of  ascend- 
ing, black  figures.  He  had  but  lately  joined,  and  to  him  both 
the  fine  vessel  and  her  owner  were  invested  with  a  certain 
romance. 

"  What  was  the  fancy  for  calling  the  yacht  the  Reprieve  ?  '* 
he  asked  presently. 

"  Wait  till  you've  had  the  chance  to  take  a  good  look  at 
Sir  Richard,  and  you'll  answer  your  question  yourself,"  the 
other  man  answered  oracularly.  Then  he  broke  out  again 
into  sustained  invective  : — "  Hold  up  there,  you  little  fool  of 
a  tight-rope  dancing,  hella  Napoli  gorilla,  and  don't  go  drop- 
ping good,  honest,  Welsh  steam-coal  overboard  into  your  con- 
founded, stinking  local  sewer !  I  don't  care  to  see  any  of 
your  blamed  posturings,  don't  flatter  yourself.  Hold  up  you 
grimacing,  great  grandson  of  a  lousy  she-ape,  can't  you,  and 
walk  straight. — Take  him  all  round  Sir  Richard  Calmady's 
the  best  boss  I  ever  sailed  with — one  of  the  sternest,  but  the 
•civilest  too. — Shove  'em  along,  ganger,  will  you.  Shove  'em 
along,  I  say. — He's  one  of  the  few  men  I've  loved,  I'm  not 
ashamed  to  say  it,  Mr.  Penberthy,  and  about  the  only  one  I 
ever  remember  to  have  feared,  in  my  life." 

Meanwhile,  if  the  scene  to  seaward  was  cheerless,  that  to 
landward  offered  but  small  improvement.  For  the  murk  of 
low-brooding  cloud  and  falling  rain  blotted  out  the  Castcl  S* 


RAKE'S  PROGRESS 


513 


Elmo,  and  the  Capo  di  Monte  and  Pizzafalcone  heights. 
Even  the  Castello  derOvo  down  on  the  shore  line,  compara- 
tively near  at  hand,  loomed  up  but  a  denser  mass  of  indigo- 
gray  amid  the  all  obtaining  grayness.  The  tail  multi-col- 
oured, many-shuttered  houses  fronting  the  quays — restaurants, 
cafes^  money-changers'  bureaux,  ships'  chandlers,  and  slop- 
shops— looked  tawdry  and  degraded  as  a  clown's  painted  face 
seen  by  daylight.  Thick,  malodorous  vapours  arose  from  the 
squalid  streets,  lying  back  on  the  level,  and  from  the  crowded 
shipping  of  the  port.  These  hung  in  the  stagnant  air,  about 
the  forest  of  masts  and  the  funnels  of  steamers.  And  the 
noise  of  the  place  was  as  that  of  Bedlam  let  loose. — The 
long-drawn,  chattering  rush  of  the  coal  pitched  from  the 
baskets  down  the  echoing,  iron  shoots.  The  grate  and  scream 
of  saws  cutting  through  blocks  of  stone  and  marble.  The 
grind  of  heavy  wheels  upon  the  broken,  irregular  flags.  The 
struggling  clatter  of  hoofs,  lashing  of  whips,  squeal  of  mules, 
savage  voices  raised  in  cries  and  imprecations.  The  clank 
and  roar  of  machinery.  The  repeated  bellowing  of  a  great 
liner,  blowing  ofF  steam  as  she  took  up  her  berth  in  the  outer 
harbour.  The  shattering  rattle  of  the  chains  of  a  steam 
crane,  when  the  monster  iron-arm  swung  round  seeking  or 
depositing  its  burden  and  the  crank  ran  out  in  harsh  anger,  as 
it  seemed,  and  defiance.  And  through  all  this,  as  under-cur- 
rent, the  confused  clamour  of  the  ever-shifting,  ever-present 
crowd,  and  the  small,  steady  drip  of  the  rain.  Squalid,  sor- 
did, brutal  even,  the  coarse  actualities  of  her  trade  and  her 
poverty  alike  disclosed,  her  fictions  and  her  foulness  uncon- 
doned by  reconciling  sunshine,  Naples  had  declined  from 
radiant  goddess  to  common  drab. 

It  v/as  in  this  character  that  Richard  Calmady,  driving 
yesterday,  and  for  the  first  time,  through  the  streets  at  noon, 
had  been  fated  to  see  his  so  fondly-idealised  city.  It  was  in 
this  character  that  he  apprehended  it  again  to-day,  waiting  in. 
his  deck-cabin  until  cessation  of  the  rain  and  on-coming  of 
the  friendly  dusk  should  render  it  not  wholly  odious  to  sit  out 
on  deck.  The  hours  lagged,  and  even  this  bright  and  usually 
spotless  apartment — v/ith  its  shining,  white  vi^alls,  its  dark, 
blue  leather  and  polished,  mahogany  fittings— the  coal  dust 
penetrated.  It  rimmed  the  edge  of  the  books  neatly  ranged 
on  the  racks.     It  smirched  the  charts  laid  out  on  the  square 


514  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

locker-table  below.  It  drifted  In  at  the  cabin  windows,  along 
with  the  babel  of  sound  and  the  all-pervading  stench  of  the 
port.  This  was,  in  itself,  sufficiently  distasteful,  sufficiently 
depressing.  And  to  Richard,  just  now,  the  disgust  of  it  came 
with  the  heightened  sensibility  of  physical  illness,  and  as  ac- 
companiment to  an  immense  private  shame  and  immense  self- 
condemnation,  a  conviction  of  outlawry  and  a  desolation  pass- 
ing speech.  He  looked  for  comfort,  for  promise  of  restora- 
tion, and  found  none,  in  things  material  or  things  intellectual, 
in  others  or  in  himself.  For  his  mind,  always  prone  to  ap- 
prehend by  images  rather  than  by  words,  and  to  advance  by 
analogy  rather  than  by  argument,  discovered,  in  surrounding 
aspects  and  surrounding  circumstance,  a  rather  hideously  apt 
parable  and  illustration  of  its  present  state.  Just  as  this  seem- 
ingly fair  city  was  proven,  on  intimate  acquaintance,  repulsive 
beyond  the  worst  he  had  ever  feared  and  earnestly  refused  to 
know  of  it,  so  a  certain  fair  woman,  upon  whom,  since  boy- 
hood, his  best,  most  chivalrous,  most  unselfish,  affections  had 
centred,  was  proven — herself,  moreover,  flagrantly  contribu- 
ting to  that  proving — vile  beyond  all  that  rumor,  heard  and 
passionately  denied  by  him,  had  ever  ventured  to  whisper  con- 
cerning her.  Nor  was  the  misery  of  this  revelation  lessened 
by  the  knowledge  that  his  own  part  in  it  all  had  been  very 
base.  He  had  sinned  before.  He  would  sin  again  probably. 
Richard  had  long  ceased  to  regard  these  matters  from  a  strictly 
puritanic  standpoint.  But  this  particular  sinning  was  different 
to  any  that  had  gone  before,  or  which  could  come  after  it. 
For  it  partook — so  at  least,  it  nov/  appeared  to  him — of  the 
nature  of  sacrilege,  since  he  had  sinned  against  his  ideal,  de- 
grading that  to  gross  uses  which  he  had  agreed  with  himself 
to  hold  sacred,  defiling  it  and,  thereby,  very  horribly  defiling 
himself. 

And  this  disgrace  of  their  relation,  his  own  and  hers,  the 
inherent  abomination  of  it  all  and  its  inherent  falsity,  had  been 
forced  home  on  him  with  a  certain  violence  of  directness  just 
in  the  common  course  of  daily  liappenings.  For  among  the 
letters,  brought  to  him  along  with  his  first  breakfast,  yester- 
day, after  that  night  of  secret  licence,  had  been  three  of 
serious  import.  One  w^as  from  Lady  Calmady,  and  that  he 
put  aside  with  a  certain  anger,  calling  himself  unwilling, 
knowing  himself  unfit,  to   read  it.     Another  he  tore  open. 


RAKE'S  PROGRESS  515 

The  handwriting  was  unknown  to  him.     He  began  reading  it 
in  bewilderment.     Then  he  understood. 

"  Monsieur," — it  ran, — "  You  are  in  process  of  extermi- 
nating me.  But,  since  I  have  reason  to  believe  that  no  suffi- 
cient opportunity  has  been  afforded  you  of  realising  the  enor- 
mity of  your  conduct,  I  rally  the  profoundness  of  nobility 
which  I  discover  within  me — I  calm  myself.  I  go  further,  I 
explain.  Living  in  retirement,  you  may  not  have  learned  that 
I  am  in  Naples.  I  followed  your  cousin  here — Madame  de 
Vallorbes.  My  connection  with  her  represents  the  supreme 
passion  of  my  passionate  youth.  At  once  a  frenzy  and  an 
anodyne,  I  have  found  in  it  the  inspiration  of  my  genius  in  its 
later  development.  This  work  must  not  be  put  a  stop  to.  It 
is  too  majestic,  it  is  weighted  with  too  serious  consequences 
to  the  whole  of  thinking  France,  of  thinking  Europe.  A  less 
experienced  woman  cannot  satisfy  the  extravagance  of  my  de- 
sires, the  demands  of  my  all-consuming  imagination.  The 
reverence  with  which  a  person,  such  as  yourself,  must  regard 
commanding  talent,  the  concessions  he  must  be  willing  to 
make  to  its  necessities,  are  without  limit.  This  I  cannot 
doubt  that  you  will  admit.  The  corollary  is  obvious.  Either, 
monsieur^  you  will  immediately  invite  me  to  reside  with  you  at 
your  villa — thereby  securing  for  yourself  daily  intercourse  with 
a  nature  of  distinguished  merit — or  you  will  restore  Madame 
de  Vallorbes  to  me  without  hesitation  or  delay.  Her  devotion 
to  me  is  absolute.  How  could  it  fail  to  be  so,  since  I  have 
lavished  upon  her  the  treasures  of  my  extraordinary  person- 
ality ?  But  a  fear  of  insular  prejudice  on  your  part  withholds 
her  at  this  moment  from  full  expression  of  that  devotion. 
She  suffers  as  well  as  myself.  It  will  be  your  privilege  to  put 
a  term  to  this  suffering  by  requesting  me  to  join  her,  or  by 
restoring  her  to  me.  To  do  otherwise  will  be  to  prolong  the 
eclipse  of  my  genius,  and  thereby  outrage  the  conscience  of 
civilised  humanity  which  breathlessly  awaits  the  next  utter- 
ance of  its  chosen  poet.  If  you  require  the  consolation  of 
feminine  society,  marry — it  would  be  very  simple — some 
white-souled,  English  miss.  But  restore  to  me,  to  whom  her 
presence  is  indispensable,  this  woman  of  regal  passions.  I 
shall  present  myself  at  your  house  to-day  to  receive  your 
answer  in  person.     The   result  of  a  refusal  on  your  part  to 


5i6  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

receive  me  will  be  attended  by  calamitous  consequences  to 
yourself. — Accept,  monsieur^  the  expression  of  my  highest  con- 
sideration, 

"  Paul  Auguste  Destournelle." 

For  the  moment  Richard  saw  red,  mad  with  rage  at  the 
insolence  of  the  writer.  And  then  came  the  question,  was  it 
true,  this  which  the  letter  implied  ?  Had  Helen,  indeed,  lied 
to  him  ?  And,  notwithstanding  its  insane  vanity,  did  this 
precious  epistle  give  a  more  veracious  account  of  her  relation 
to  the  young  poet  than  that  which  she  had  herself  volunteered  ? 
He  tried  to  put  the  thought  from  him.  Who  was  he — to-day 
of  all  days — to  be  nice  about  the  conduct  of  another?  Who 
was  he  to  sit  in  judgment?  So  he  turned  to  his  correspond- 
ence again,  taking  another  letter,  at  random,  from  the  pile. 
And  then,  looking  at  the  superscription,  he  turned  somewhat 
sick. 

"  MoN  CHER,'* — wrote  M.  de  Vallorbes, — "  IVIy  steward 
informs  me  that  he  has  just  received  your  draft  for  a  quarter's 
rent  of  the  villa.  I  thank  you  a  thousand  times  for  your 
admirable  punctuality.  Decidedly  you  are  of  those  with  whom 
it  is  a  consolation  to  do  business.  Need  I  assure  you  that  the 
advent  of  this  money  is  far  from  inopportune,  since  a  grateful 
country,  while  showering  distinctions  upon  me  with  one  hand, 
with  the  other  picks  my  pocket.  I  find  it  not  a  little  expen- 
sive this  famous  military  service  !  But  then,  ever  since  I  can 
remember,  I  have  found  all  that  afforded  me  the  slightest, 
active  pleasure  equally  that !  And  this  sport  of  war,  I  prom- 
ise you,  is  the  most  excellent  sport  in  which  I  have  as  yet 
participated.  It  satisfies  the  primitive  instincts  more  thor- 
oughly than  even  your  English  fox-hunting.  A  battue  of 
Communards  is  obviously  superior  to  a  battue  of  pheasants. 
To  the  dignity  of  killing  one's  fellow-men  is  added  the  satis- 
faction of  ridding  oneself  of  vermin.  It  becomes  a  matter 
of  sanitation  and  self-respect.  And  this,  indirectly,  recalls 
to  me,  that  report  declares  my  wife  to  be  with  you  at  Naples. 
Alon  cher  je  vous  en  fats  cadeau.  With  you,  at  least,  I  know 
that  my  honour  is  safe.  You  may  even  instil  into  her  mind 
some  faint  conception  of  the  rudiments  of  morality.  To  be 
frank  with  you,  she  needs  that.     A  couple  of  months  ago  she 


RAKE'S  PROGRESS 


517 


did  me  the  honour  to  elope — temporarily,  of  course — with  M. 
Paul  Destournelle,  You  may  have  glanced,  one  day,  at  his 
crapulous  verses.  I  suppose  honour  demanded  that  I  should 
pursue  the  guilty  pair  and  account  for  one,  if  not  both,  of 
them.  But  I  was  too  busily  engaged  with  my  little  Com^ 
munards.  We  set  these  gentry  up  against  a  wall  and  dispose 
of  them  in  batches.  I  have  had  a  good  deal  of  this,  but,  as  I 
say,  it  has  not  yet  become  monotonous.  Traits  of  individual 
character  lend  it  vivacity.  And  then,  putting  aside  the  exi- 
gencies of  my  profession,  I  do  not  know  that  anything  is  to 
be  gained  by  inviting  public  scandal.  You  have  an  English 
proverb  to  the  effect  that  one  should  wash  one's  dirty  linen  at 
home.  This  I  have  tried  to  do,  as  you  cannot  but  be  aw^are, 
all  along.  If  one  has  had  the  misfortune  to  marry  Messalina^ 
one  learns  to  be  philosophic.  A  few  lovers  more  or  less,  in 
that  connection,  what,  after  all,  does  it  matter  ?  Indeed,  I 
begin  to  derive  ironical  consolation  from  the  fact  of  their 
multiplicity.  The  existence  of  one  would  have  constituted 
a  reflection  upon  my  charms.  But  a  matter  of  ten,  fifteen, 
twenty,  ceases  to  be  in  any  degree  personal  to  myself.  Only 
I  object  to  Destournelle.  He  is  too  young,  too  rococco.  He 
represents  a  descent  in  the  scale.  I  prefer  des  homines  mureSy 
generals,  ministers,  princes.  The  devil  knows  we  have  had 
our  share  of  such  !  Your  generosity  to  her  has  saved  us  from 
Jews  so  far,  and  from  nouveaux  riches^  by  relieving  the  busi- 
ness of  commercial  aspects.  Give  her  some  salutary  advice, 
therefore,  mon  cher^  and  if  she  becomes  inconvenient  forward 
her  to  Paris.  I  forgive  to  seventy-times-seven,  being  still 
proud  enough  to  struggle  after  an  appearance  of  social  and 
conjugal  decency.  Enfin  it  is  a  relief  to  have  unburdened 
myself  for  once,  and  you  have  been  the  good  genius  of  my 
unfortunsite  menage^  for  which  heaven  reward  you. — Yours,  in 
true  cousinly  regard  and  supreme  reliance  on  your  discretion, 
"  LuiGi  Angelo  Francesco  de  Vallorbes." 

That  this,  in  any  case,  had  a  stamp  of  sincerity  upon  it, 
Richard  could  not  doubt.  It  must  be  admitted  that  he  had 
long  ceased  to  accept  Madame  de  Vallorbes'  estimate  of  her 
husband  with  unqualified  belief.  But,  be  that  as  it  might, 
whether  he  were  a  consummate,  or  merely  an  average,  profli- 
gate,  one    thing   was    certain    that    this   man    trusted   him — ' 


5i8  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

Richard  Calmady, — and  that  he — Richard  Cahnady — had  very 
vilely  betrayed  that  trust.  He  stared  at  the  letter,  and  certain 
sentences  in  it  seemed  to  sear  him,  even  as  the  branding-iron 
used  on  a  felon  might.  This  was  a  new  shame,  different  to, 
and  greater  than,  any  his  deformity  had  ever  induced  in  him, 
even  as  evil  done  is  different  to,  and  greater  than,  evil  suffered. 
Morality  may  be  relative  only  and  conventional.  Honour, 
for  all  persons  of  a  certain  standing  and  breeding,  remains 
absolute.  And  it  was  precisely  of  his  own  honour  that  he  had 
deprived  himself.  Not  only  in  body,  but  in  character,  he  was 
henceforth  monstrous.  For  a  while  Richard  had  remained 
very  still,  looking  at  this  thing  into  which  he  had  made  him- 
self as  though  it  were  external  and  physically  visible  to  him. 

Then,  suddenly,  he  had  reached  out  his  hand  for  his  mother's 
letter.  A  decision  of  great  moment  was  impending.  He  would 
know  what  she  had  to  say  before  finally  making  that  decision. 
He  wondered  bitterly,  grimly,  whether  her  words  would  plunge 
him  yet  deeper  in  this  abyss  of  self-hatred  and  self-contempt. 

"My  Darling," — she  wrote, — "I  am  foolishly  glad  to 
learn  that  you  are  back  at  Naples.  It  gives  me  comfort  to 
know  you  are  even  thus  much  nearer  home  and  in  a  country 
where  I  too  have  traveled  and  of  which  I  retain  many  dear 
and  delightful  recollections.  You  may  be  surprised,  perhaps, 
to  see  the  unaccustomed  address  upon  my  note-paper  and  may 
wonder  what  has  made  me  guilty  of  deserting  my  post.  Now, 
since  the  worst  of  it  is  certainly  over,  I  may  tell  you  that  my 
health  has  failed  a  good  deal  of  late.  Nothing  of  a  really  seri- 
ous nature — you  need  not  be  alarmed  about  me.  But  I  had  got 
into  a  rather  weak  and  unworthy  state,  from  which  it  became 
very  desirable  I  should  rouse  myself.  Selfishness  is  insidious, 
but  none  the  less  reprehensible  because  it  takes  the  apparently 
innocent  form  of  sitting  in  a  chair  with  one's  eyes  shut  ! 
However,  that  best  of  men,  John  Knott,  brought  very  bracing 
influences  to  bear  on  me,  convincing  me  of  sin — in  the  gentlest 
way  in  the  world — by  means  of  Honoria  St.  Quentin.  And 
so  I  picked  myself  up,  dear  Dickie, — picked  the  whole  of  my- 
self up,  as  I  hope,  always  saving  and  excepting  my  self-indul- 
gent inertia, — and  came  away  here  to  Ormiston.  At  first,  I 
confess,  I  felt  very  much  like  a  dog  at  a  fair,  or  the  proverbial 
mummy  at  a  feast.     But  they  all  bore  with  me  in  the  plenty 


RAKE'S  PROGRESS  519 

of  their  kindness,  and,  in  the  last  week,  I  have  banished  the 
mummy  and  trained  the  scared  dog  to  altogether  polite  and 
pretty  behaviour.  Till  I  came  back  to  it,  I  hardly  realised 
how  truly  I  loved  this  place.  How  should  it  be  otherwise  ? 
I  met  your  father  first  here  after  his  third  term  at  Eton.  I 
remember  he  snubbed  me  roundly.  I  met  him  again  the  year 
before  our  marriage.  Without  vanity  I  declare  that  then  he 
snubbed  me  not  one  little  bit.  These  things  are  very  far 
away.  But  to  mc,  though  far  away,  they  are  very  vivid  and 
very  lovely.  I  see  them  as  you,  when  you  were  small,  so 
often  pleaded  to  see  a  fairy  landscape  by  looking  through  the 
large  end  of  the  gold  and  tortoise-shell  spy-glass  upon  my  writ- 
ing-table. All  of  which  may  seem  to  you  somewhat  childish 
and  trivial,  but  I  grow  an  old  woman  and  have  a  fancy  for 
toys  and  tender  make-believes — such  as  fairy  landscapes  seen 
through  the  big  end  of  a  spy-glass.  The  actual  landscape,  at 
times,  is  a  trifle  discouragingly  rain-washed  and  cloudy  ! — 
Roger  and  Mary  are  here.  Their  two  boys  are  just  gone 
back  to  school  again.  They  are  fine,  courteous,  fearless,  little 
fellows.  Roger  makes  a  rather  superb  middle-aged  man.  He 
has  much  of  my  father — your  grandfather's  reticence  and 
dignity.  Indeed,  he  might  prove  slightly  alarming,  was  one 
not  so  perfectly  sure  of  him,  dear  creature.  Mary  remains, 
as  of  old,  the  most  wholesome  and  helpful  of  women.  Yes, 
it  is  good  to  dwell,  for  a  time,  among  one's  own  people.  And 
I  cannot  but  rejoice  that  my  eldest  brother  has  come  to  an 
arrangement  by  which,  at  his  death,  your  Uncle  William  will 
receive  a  considerable  sum  of  money  in  lieu  of  the  property. 
This  last  will  go  direct  to  Roger,  and  eventually  to  his  boys. 
If  your  Uncle  William  had  a  son,  the  whole  matter  would  be 
different.  But  I  own  it  would  hurt  me  that  in  the  event  of 
his  death  there  would  be  no  Ormiston  at  Ormiston  after  these 
many  generations.  In  all  probability  the  place  would  be  sold 
immediately,  moreover,  for  it  is  an  open  secret  that,  through 
no  fault  of  his  own,  poor  man,  William  is  sadly  embarrassed 
in  money  matters.  And  he  has  other  sorrows — of  a  rather 
terrible  nature,  since  they  are  touched  with  disgrace.  But  here 
you  will  probably  detect  a  point  of  prejudice,  so  I  had  better ^ 
stop  ! — I  look  out  upon  a  gray,  northern  sea,  where  ^the  white 
horses  fume  and  fret'  under  a  cold,  gray,  northern  sky.  The 
oaks  in  the  park  are  just  thickening  with  yellow-green  buds.^ 


520  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

And  there,  close  to  my  window,  perched  on  a  topmost  twig, 
a  missel-thrush  is  singing,  facing  the  wind  like  a  gentleman. 
You  look  out  upon  a  purple  sea,  I  suppose,  beneath  clear 
skies  and  over  orange  trees  and  palms.  I  wonder  if  any  brav^e 
bird  pipes  to  you  as  my  storm-cock  to  me  ?  It  brings  up 
one's  courage  to  hear  his  song,  so  strong  and  wild  and  sweet, 
in  the  very  teeth  of  the  gale  too !  But  now  you  will  )iave 
had  enough  of  my  nevfc^s  and  more  than  enough.  I  write  to 
you  more  freely,  you  see,  than  for  a  iong  time  past,  being 
myself  more  free  of  spirit.  And  therefore  I  dare  add  this,  in 
all  and  every  case,  my  darling,  God  keep  you.  And  remem- 
ber, should  you  weary  of  wandering,  that  not  only  the  doors 
of  Biockhurst,  but  the  doors  of  my  heart,  stand  forever  wide 
open  to  welcome  you  home. — Yours  always,  K.  C." 

Reading  which  gentle, yet  in  a  sense  daring,  words,  Richard's 
shame  took  on  another  complexion,  but  one  by  no  means 
calculated  to  mitigate  the  burning  of  it.  His  treachery  towards 
de  Vallorbes  became  almost  vulgar  and  of  small  moment  beside 
his  cruelty  to  this  superbly  magnanimous  woman,  his  mother. 
For,  all  these  years,  determinately  and  of  set  purpose,  dejfiant 
of  every  better  impulse,  he  had  hardened  his  heart  against  her. 
To  differ  from  her,  to  cherish  that  which  was  unsympathetic 
to  her,  to  put  aside  every  tradition  in  which  she  had  nurtured 
him,  to  love  that  which  she  condemned,  to  condemn  that  which 
she  loved — and  this,  if  silently,  yet  unswervingly — had  been 
the  ruling  purpose  of  his  action.  That  which  had  its  origin  in 
passionate  revolt  against  his  own  unhappy  disfigurement,  had 
come  to  be  an  interest  and  object  in  itself.  In  this  quarrel  with 
her — a  quarrel,  intimate,  pre-natal,  anterior  to  consciousness 
and  to  volition — he  found  the  justification  of  his  every  lapse, 
his  every  crookedness  of  conduct  and  of  thought.  Since  he 
could  not  reach  Almighty  God,  and  strike  at  the  eternal  First 
Cause  which  he  held  responsible  for  the  inalienable  wrong  done 
to  him,  he  would  strike,  w^th  cold-blooded  persistence,  at  the 
woman  whom  Almighty  God  had  permitted  to  be  His  instru- 
ment in  the  infliction  of  that  wrong.  And  to  where  had  that 
sustained  purpose  of  striking  led  him  ?  Even — so  he  judged 
just  now — to  the  dishonour  and  desolation  of  to-day,  following 
upon  the  sacrilegious  licence  of  last  night. 

All  this  Richard  saw  with  the  alternately  groping,  benumbed. 


RAKE'S  PROGRESS  521 

mental  vision  and  the  glaring,  mental  nakedness  of  breeding 
fever.  Small  wonder  that  looking  for  comfort,  for  promise  of 
restoration,  he  found  none  in  things  material,  in  things  intel- 
lectual, in  others,  or  in  himself!  He  felt  outcasted  beyond 
hope  of  redemption,  but  not  repentant,  hardly  remorseful  even, 
only  aware  of  all  that  which  had  happened,  and  of  his  own 
state.  For  Lady  Calmady's  letter  was  to  him  little  more,  as 
yet,  than  a  placing  of  facts.  To  trade  upon  her  magnificent 
generosity  of  affection,  and  seek  refuge  in  those  outstretched 
arms  now,  with  the  mark  of  the  branding-iron  so  sensibly 
upon  him,  appeared  to  him  of  all  contemptible  doings  the  most 
radically  contemptible.  Obviously  it  was  impossible  to  go 
back.  He  must  go  on  rather — out  of  sight,  out  of  mind. 
Fantastic  schemes  of  disappearing,  of  losing  himself,  far  away, 
in  remote  and  nameless  places,  among  the  coral  islands  of  the 
Pacific  or  the  chill  majesty  of  the  Antarctic  seas,  offered 
themselves  to  his  imagination.  The  practical  difficulties  pre- 
sented by  such  schemes,  their  infeasibility,  did  not  trouble  him. 
He  would  sever  all  connection  with  that  which  had  been,  with 
that  which  had  made  for  good  equally  with  that  which  had 
niade  for  evil.  By  his  own  voluntary  act  and  choice  he  would 
become  as  a  man  dead,  the  disgrace  of  his  malformed  body, 
the  closer  and  more  hideous  disgrace  of  his  defiled  and  pros- 
tituted soul,  surviving  in  legend  merely,  as  might  some  ugly, 
old-time  fable  useful  for  the  frightening  of  unruly  babies. 

And  to  that  end  of  self-obliteration  he  instantly  applied  him- 
self, with  outward  calm,  but  with  the  mental  hurry  and  rest- 
lessness of  increasing  illness.  His  first  duty  was  to  end  the 
whole  matter  of  his  relation  to  Helen, — Helen  shorn  of  her 
divinity,  convicted  liar  and  wanton,  yet  mistress  still  for  him, 
as  he  feared,  of  mighty  enchantments.  So  he  wrote  to  her 
very  briefly.  The  note  should  be  given  her  later  in  the  day. 
In  it  he  stated  that  he  should  have  left  the  villa  before  this 
announcement  reached  her,  left  it  finally  and  without  remotest 
prospect  of  return,  since  he  could  not  doubt  that  she  recog- 
nised, as  he  did,  how  impossible  it  had  become  that  he  and  she 
should  meet  again.  He  added  that  he  would  communicate 
with  her  shortly  as  to  business  arrangements.  That  done,  he 
summoned  Powell,  his  valet,  bidding  him  pack,  He  would  go 
down  to  the  yacht  at  once.  He  had  received  information  which 
^inade  it  imperative  that  he  should  quit  Naples  immediately. 


522  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

To  be  out  of  all  this,  rid  of  it,  fairly  started  on  the  road  of 
negation  of  social  being,  negation  of  recognised  existence,  in- 
fected him  like  a  madness.  But  even  the  most  forceful  human 
will  must  bend  to  stupidities  of  detail  and  of  material  fact. 
Unexpected  delays  had  occurred.  The  yacht  was  not  ready 
for  sea,  neither  coaled,  nor  provisioned,  nor  sound  of  certain 
small  damages  to  her  machinery.  Vanstone,  the  captain^ 
might  mislay  his  temper,  and  the  first  mate  expend  himself 
in  polysyllabic  invective,  young  Penberthy  cease  to  dream, 
stewards,  engineers,  carpenters,  cooks,  quartermasters,  seamen, 
firemen,  do  their  most  willing  and  urgent  best,  nevertheless 
the  morning  of  next  day,  and  even  the 'afternoon  of  it,  still 
found  Richard  Calmady  seated  at  the  locker-table  of  the 
white-walled  deck-cabin,  his  voyage  towards  self-obliteration 
not  yet  begun. 

Charts  were  outspread  before  him,  upon  which,  at  weary 
intervals,  he  essayed  to  trace  the  course  of  his  coming  wander- 
ings. But  his  brain  was  dull,  he  had  no  power  of  consecutive 
thought.  That  same  madness  of  going  was  upon  him  with 
undiminished  power,  yet  he  knew  not  vi^here  he  wanted  to  go, 
hardly  why  he  wanted  to  go,  only  that  a  blind  obsession  of 
going  drove  him.  He  was  miserably  troubled  about  other 
matters  too — about  that  same  brief  letter  he  had  written  to 
Helen  before  leaving  the  villa.  He  was  convinced  that  he  had 
written  such  a  letter,  but  struggle  as  he  might  to  remember 
the  contents  of  it  they  remained  to  him  a  blank.  He  was 
haunted  by  the  fear  that  in  that  letter  he  had  committed 
some  irremediable  folly,  had  bound  himself  to  some  absurdly 
unworthy  course  of  action.  But  what  it  might  be  escaped 
and,  in  escaping,  tortured  him.  And  then,  this  surely  was 
Friday,  and  Morabita  sang  at  the  San  Carlo  to-night  ?  And 
surely  he  had  promised  to  be  there,  and  to  meet  the  famous 
prima  donna  and  sup  with  her  after  the  performance,  as  in 
former  days  at  Vienna  ?  He  had  not  always  been  quite  kind 
to  her,  poor,  dear,  fat,  good-natured,  silly  soul !  He  could 
not  fail  her  now. — And  then  he  went  back  to  a  chart  of  the 
South  Pacific  again.  Only  he  could  not  see  it  plainly,  but 
saw,  instead  of  it,  the  great  folio  of  copper-plate  engravings 
Iving  on  the  broad  window-seat  of  the  eastern  bay  of  the 
Long  Gallery  at  home.  He  was  sitting  there  to  watch  for 
the    race-horses    coming    back  from  exercise,  Tom  Chifney 


RAKE'S  PROGRESS  523 

pricking  along  beside  them  on  his  handsome  cob.  And  the 
long-ago,  boyish  desperation  of  longing  for  wholeness,  for 
freedom,  brought  a  moistness  to  his  eyes,  and  a  lump  into  his 
throat.  And  all  the  while  the  coal  dust  drifted  in  at  each 
smallest  crevice  and  aperture,  and  the  air  was  vibrant  with 
rasping,  jarring  uproar  and  nauseous  with  the  stale,  heavy 
odours  of  the  city  and  the  port.  And  steadily,  ceaselessly, 
the  descending  rain  drummed  upon  the  roofing  overhead. 

At  length  a  stupor  took  him.  His  head  sunk  upon  his 
arms,  folded  upon  those  outspread  charts,  while  the  noise  of 
all  the  rude  activities  surrounding  him  subtly  transformed  itself 
into  that  of  a  great  orchestra.  And  above  this,  superior  to, 
yet  nobly  supported  by  it,  Morabita's  voice  rose  in  the  suave 
and  passionate  phrases  of  the  glorious  cavatina — ^^Ernani^ 
Ernani^  involami^  all  ahorito  amplesoJ^ — Yes,  her  voice  was  as 
good  as  ever !  Richard  drew  a  long  breath  of  relief.  Here, 
at  least,  was  something  true  to  itself,  and  amid  so  much  of 
change,  so  much  of  spoiling,  still  unspoilt !  He  raised  his 
head  and  listened.  For  something  must  have  happened,  some- 
thing of  serious  moment.  The  orchestra,  for  some  unaccount- 
able reason,  had  suddenly  broken  down.  Yes,  it  must  be  the 
orchestra  which  disaster  had  overtaken,  for  a  voice  very  cer- 
tainly continued.  No,  not  a  voice,  but  voices — those  of 
Vanstone  the  captain,  and  Price  the  first  mate,  and  old  Billy 
Tinn  the  boatswain — loud,  imperative,  violently  remonstrant, 
but  swept  under  and  swamped  at  moments  by  cries  and  volleys 
of  foulest,  Neapolitan  argot  from  hoarse,  Neapolitan  throats. 
And  that  abruptly  silenced  orchestra  ? —  Richard  came  back 
to  himself,  came  back  to  actualities  of  environment  and 
prosaic  fact.  An  infinitely  weariful  despair  seized  him.  For 
the  sound  that  had  reached  so  sudden  a  termination  was  not 
that  of  cunningly-attuned,  musical  instruments,  but  the  long- 
drawn,  chattering  rush  of  the  coal,  p'.tched  from  the  baskets 
down  the  echoing,  iron  shoots. 

The  cabin  door  opened  discreetly  and  Powell,  incarnation 
of  decorous  punctualities  even  amid  existing  tumultuously 
discomposing  circumstances,  entered. 

"  From  the  villa,  sir,"  he  said,  depositing  letters  and  news- 
papers upon  the  table. 

Richard  put  out  his  hand,  turned  them  over  mechanically. 
For  again,  somehow,  notwithstanding  the  babel  without,  that 


524  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

exquisite  invitation — "  Ernani^  Ernani^lnvolami^^ — assailed  his 
ears. 

The  valet  waited  a  little,  quiet  and  deferential  in  bearing, 
yet  observing  his  master  with  a  certain  keenness  and  anxiety. 

"  I  saw  Mr.  Bates,  as  you  desired,  sir,''  he  said  at  last. 

Richard  looked  up  at  him  vaguely.  And  it  struck  him  that 
while  Powell  was  on  shore  to-day  he  had  undoubtedly  had  his 
hair  cut.  This  interested  him — though  why,  he  would  have 
found  it  difficult  to  say. 

"  Mr.  Bates  thought  you  should  be  informed  that  a  gentleman 
called  early  yesterday  afternoon,  as  he  said  by  appointment." 

Yes — certainly  Powell  had  had  his  hair  cut. — "  Did  the 
gentleman  give  his  name  ?  " 

"Yes,  sir,  M.  Paul  Destournelle." 

Powell  spoke  slowly,  getting  his  tongue  carefully  round  the 
foreign  syllables,  and,  for  all  the  confusion  of  his  hearer's 
mind,  the  name  went  home.  Vagueness  passed  from  Rich- 
ard's glance. 

"  He  was  refused,  of  course." 

"  Her  ladyship  had  given  orders  that  should  any  person  of 
that  name  call  he  was  to  be  admitted." — Powell  spoke  with 
evident  reluctance.  ''  Consequently  Mr.  Bates  was  uncertain 
how  to  act,  having  received  contrary  orders  from  you,  sir,  the 
day  before  yesterday.  He  explained  this  to  her  ladyship,  but 
she  insisted." 

Richard's  mind  had  become  perfectly  lucid. 

"Very  well,"  he  said  coldly. 

"  Mr.  Bates  also  thought  you  should  know,  sir,  that  after 
M.  De^tournelle's  visit  her  ladyship  announced  she  should  not 
remain  at  the  villa.  She  left  about  five  o'clock,  taking  her 
maid.     Charles  followed  with  all  the  baggage." 

The  valet  paused.  Richard's  manner  was  decidedly  dis- 
couraging, yet,  something  further  must  at  least  be  intimated. 

"  Her  ladyship  gave  no  address  to  Mr.  Bates  for  the  for- 
warding of  her  letters." 

But  here  the  cabin  door,  left  slightly  ajar  by  Powell,  was 
opened  wide,  and  that  with  none  of  the  calm  and  discretion 
displayed  by  the  functionary  in  question.  A  long  perspective 
of  grimy  deck  behind  him,  his  oilskins  shiny  from  tlie  wet, 
with  trim,  black  beard,  square-made,  bold-eyed,  hot-tempered, 
warm-hearted,  alert,  humorous — typical  West  Countryman  as 


RAKE'S  PROGRESS  525 

his  gentle  dreamy  cousin,  Pcnberthy,  the  second  mate,  though 
of  a  very  different  type — stood  Captain  Vanstone.  His 
easily-rufHed  temper  suffered  from  the  after  effects  of  what  is 
commonly  known  as  a  ^' jolly  row,"  and  his  speech  was  curt 
in  consequence  thereof. 

"  Sorry  to  disturb  you,  Sir  Richard,"  he  said,  "  and  still 
more  sorry  to  disappoint  you,  but  it  can't  be  helped." 

Dickie  turned  upon  him  so  strangely  drawn  and  haggard  a 
countenance,  that  Vanstone  with  difficulty  repressed  an  excla- 
mation. He  looked  in  quick  inquiry  at  the  valet,  who  so  far 
departed  from  his  usual  decorum  as  to  nod  his  head  in  assent 
to  the  silent  questioning. 

"What's  wrong  now  ?  "  Richard  said. 

"  Why,  these  beggarly  rascals  have  knocked  off.  Price 
offered  them  a  higher  scale  of  pay.  I  had  empowered  him  to 
do  so.  But  they  won't  budge.  The  rain's  washed  the  heart 
out  of  them.  We've  tried  persuasion  and  we've  tried  threats 
— it's  no  earthly  use.  Not  a  basket  more  coal  will  they  put 
on  board  before  five  to-morrow  morning." 

"  Can't  we  sail  with  what  we  have  got  ?  " 

''  Not  enough  to  carry  us  to  Port  Said." 

"  What  will  be  the  extent  of  the  delav  this  time  ?  "  Richard 
asked.     His  tone  had  an  edge  to  it. 

Again  Captain  Vanstone  glanced  at  the  valet. 

"With  luck  we  may  get  off  to-morrow  about  midnight." 

He  stepped  back,  shook  himself  like  a  big  dog,  scattering 
the  water  off  his  oilskins  in  a  shower  upon  the  slippery  deck. 
Then  he  came  inside  the  cabin  and  stood  near  Richard.  His 
expression  was  very  kindly,  tender  almost. 

"  You  must  excuse  me,  sir,"  he  said.  "  I  know  it  doesn't 
come  within  my  province  to  give  you  advice.  But  you  do 
look  pretty  ill.  Sir  Richard.  Every  one's  remarking  that.  And 
you  are  ill,  sir — you  know  it,  and  I  know  It,  and  Mr.  Powell 
here  knows  it.  You  ought  to  see  a  doctor,  sir — and  if  you'll 
pardon  plain  language,  this  beastly  cess-pit  of  a  harbour  is  not 
a  fit  place  for  you  to  sleep  in." 

And  poor  JDickie,  after  an  instant  of  sharp  annoyance, 
touched  by  the  man's  honest  humanity  smiled  upon  hxm — a 
smile  of  utter  weariness,  utter  homelessness. 

"  Perfectly  true.  Get  me  out  to  sea  then,  Vanstone,  I 
shall  be  better  there  than  anywhere  else,"  he  said. 


526  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

Whereupon  the  kindly  sailor-man  turned  away,  swearing 
gently  into  his  trim,  black  beard. 

But  the  valet  remained,  impassive  in  manner,  actively  anx- 
ious at  heart. 

"  Have  you  any  orders  for  the  carriage,  sir  ?  "  he  asked. 
"  Garcia  drove  me  down.  I  told  him  to  wait  until  I  had  in- 
quired." 

Richard  was  long  in  replying.  His  brain  was  all  confused 
and  clouded  again,  while  again  he  heard  the  voice  of  the 
famous  soprano — "  Ernani^  Ernan't^  involami,^'* 

"Yes,"  he  said  at  last.  "Tell  Garcia  to  be  here  in  good 
time  to  drive  me  to  the  San  Carlo.  I  have  an  appointment  at 
the  opera  to-night." 


CHAPTER  XI 

IN    WHICH    DICKIE    GOES   TO    THE     END    OF   THE    WORLD   AND 
LOOKS    OVER    THE    WALL 

'  I  ^HE  opera  box,  which  Richard  Calmady  had  rented  along 
•^  with  the  Villa  Vallorbes,  was  fifth  from  the  stage  on 
the  third  tier,  to  the  right  of  the  vast  horseshoe.  Thus  situ- 
ated, it  commanded  a  very  comprehensive  view  of  the  interior 
of  the  house.  The  parterre — its  somewhat  comfortless  seats, 
rising  as  on  iron  stilts,  as  they  recede,  row  by  row,  from  the 
proscenium — was  packed.  While,  since  the  aristocratic  world 
had  not  yet  left  town,  the  boxes — piled,  tier  above  tier,  with- 
out break  of  dress-circle  or  gallery,  right  up  to  the  lofty  roof — 
were  well-filled.  And  it  was  the  effect  of  these  last  that 
affected  Richard  oddly,  displeasingly,  as,  helped  by  Powell  and 
Andrews, — the  first  footman,  who  acted  as  his  table-steward 
on  board  the  Reprieve^ — he  made  his  v/ay  slowly  down  to  the 
chair,  placed  on  the  left,  at  the  front  of  the  box.  For  the 
accepted  aspects  and  relations  of  things  seen  were  remote  to 
him.  He  perceived  effects,  shapes,  associations  of  colour, 
divorced  from  their  habitual  significance.  It  was  as  though 
he  looked  at  the  written  characters  of  a  language  unknown  to 
him,  observing  the  form  of  them,  but  attaching  no  intelligible 
meaning  to  that  form.     And  so  it  happened  that  those  many 


MKE'S  PROGRESS  ^if 

superimposed  tiers  of  boxes  were  to  him  as  the  waxen  cells 
■of  a  gigantic  honeycomb,  against  the  angular  darknesses  of 
which  little  figures,  seen  to  the  waist,  took  the  light — the 
blond  face,  neck  and  arms  of  some  woman,  the  fair  colourg 
of  her  dress — and  showed  up  with  perplexing  insistence.  For 
they  were  all  peopled,  these  cells  of  the  honeycomb,  and — so 
it  seemed  to  him — with  larvae,  bright-hued,  unworking,  indo* 
lent,  full-fed.  Down  there  upon  the  parterre^  in  the  close- 
packed  ranks  of  students,  of  men  and  women  of  the  middle- 
class,  soberly  attired  in  walking  costume,  he  recognised  the 
working  bees  of  this  giant  hive.  By  their  unremitting  labour 
the  dainty  waxen  cells  were  actually  built  up,  and  those  larvae 
were  so  amply,  so  luxuriously,  fed.  And  the  working  bees — - 
there  were  so  many,  so  very  many  of  them  !  What  if  they 
became  mutinous,  rebelled  against  labour,  plundered  and  des- 
troyed the  indolent,  succulent  larvae  of  which  he — yes,  he, 
Richard  Calmady — was  unquestionably  and  conspicuously  one  ? 
He  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  pulled  forward  the  velvet 
drapery  so  as  to  shut  out  the  view  of  the  house,  and  fixed  his 
«yes  upon  the  heads  of  the  musicians  in  the  orchestra.  The 
overture  was  nearly  over.  The  curtain  would  very  soon  go 
up.  Then  he  observed  that  Powell  still  stood  near  him.  The 
man  was  strangely  officious  to-day,  he  thought.  Could  that 
be  connected  in  any  way  with  the  fact  he  had  had  his  hair 
cut  ?  For  a  moment  the  notion  appeared  to  Dickie  quite  ex- 
travagantly amusing.  But  he  kept  his  amusement,  as  so  much 
else,  to  himself.  And  again  the  working  bees,  down  in  the 
parterre^  attracted  his  attention.  They  were  buzzing,  buzz- 
ing angrily,  displeased  with  the  full-fed  larvae  in  the  boxes, 
because  these  last  were  altogether  too  social,  talked  too  loud 
and  too  continuously,  drowning  the  softer  passages  of  the 
overture.  Those  dull-coloured  insects  had  expended  store  o\ 
hard-earned  lire  upon  the  queer  seats  they  occupied,  mounted 
as  upon  iron  stilts.  They  meant  to  have  the  whole  of  that 
which  they  had  paid  for,  and  hear  every  note.  If  they 
swarmed,  now,  swarmed  upward,  clung  along  the  edges  of 
those  many  tiers  of  boxes,  punished  inconsiderate  insolence 
with  stings  ? — It  would  hardly  be  unjust. — But  there  was 
Pov/ell  still,  clad  in  sober  garm.ents.  He  belonged  to  the 
workintr  bees.  And  Richard  became  aware  of  a  sine.iilar 
diffidence  and  embarrassment  m  thinking  of  that.     If  tiiey 


528  SIR  RICHARL  CAlMADY 

should  swarm,  those  workers,  he  would  rather  the  valet  did 
not  see  it,  somehow.  He  was  a  good  fellow,  a  faithful  serv- 
ant, a  man  of  nice  feeling,  and  such  an  incident  would  place 
him  in  an  awkward  position.  He  ought  to  be  spared  that. 
Carefully  Dickie  reasoned  it  all  out. 

"  You  need  not  stay  here  any  longer,  Powell,"  he  said. 

"  When  shall  I  return,  sir  ?  " 

The  curtain  went  up.  A  roll  of  drums,  a  chorus  of  men's 
voices,  somewhat  truculent,  in  the  drinking  song. 

^'  At  the  end  of  the  performance,  of  course." 

But  the  valet  hesitated. 

''  You  might  require  to  send  some  message,  sir." 

Richard  stared  at  the  chorus.  The  opera  being  performed 
but  this  once,  economy  prevailed.  Costumiers  had  ransacked 
their  stock  for  discovery  of  garments  not  unpardonably  inap- 
propriate. The  result  showed  a  line  superiority  to  details  of 
time  and  place.  One  Spanish  bandit,  a  portly  basso^  figured  in 
a  surprising  variety  of  Highland  dress  designed,  and  that 
locally,  for  a  chieftain  in  the  opera  of  Lucia  di  Lammermoor. 
His  acquaintance  with  the  eccentricities  of  a  kilt  being  of  the 
slightest,  consequences  ensued  broadly  humorous. — Again 
Dickie  experienced  great  amusement.  But  that  message  ? — 
Had  he  really  one  to  send  ?  Probably  he  had.  He  could  not 
remember,  and  this  annoyed  him.  Possibly  he  might  remem- 
ber later.  He  turned  to  Powell,  forgetting  his  amusement, 
forgetting  the  too  intimate  personal  revelations  of  the  unhappy 
basso, 

"Yes — well — come  back  at  the  end  of  the  second  act, 
then,"  he  said. 

If  the  bees  swarmed  it  would  be  over  by  that  time,  he  sup- 
posed, so  Powell's  return  would  not  matter  much  one  way  or 
the  other.  A  persuasion  of  something  momentous  about  to 
be  accomplished  deepened  in  him.  The  madness  of  going, 
which  had  so  pushed  him  earlier  in  the  day,  fell  dead  before 
it.  For  this  concourse  of  living  creatures  must  be  gathered 
together  to  witness  some  event  commensurate  in  importance 
with  the  greatness  of  their  number.  He  felt  sure  of  that. 
Yes — before  long  they  would  swarm.  Incontestably  they 
would  swarm  ! — Again  he  drew  aside  the  velvet  drapery  and 
looked  down  curiously  upon  the  arena  and  its  occupants. 
For  a  new  idea  had  come  to  him  regarding  these  last.     They 


RAKE'S  PROGRESS  529 

still  presented  the  effect  of  a  throng  of  busy,  angry  insects. 
But  Richard  knew  better.  He  had  penetrated  their  disguise, 
a  disguise  assumed  to  insure  their  ultimate  purpose  with  the 
greater  certainty.  He  knew  them  to  be  human.  He  knew 
their  purpose  to  be  a  moral  one.  And,  looking  upon  them, 
recognising  the  spirit  which  animated  them,  he  was  taken  with 
a  reverence  and  sympathy  for  average,  toiling  humanity  unfelt 
by  him  before.  For  he  saw  that  by  these,  the  workers,  the 
final  issues  are  inevitably  decided,  by  these  the  final  verdict  is 
pronounced.  Individually  they  may  be  contemptible,  but  in 
their  corporate  intelligence,  corporate  strength,  they  are  little 
short  of  majestic.  Of  art,  letters,  practical  civilisation,  even 
religion,  even,  in  a  degree,  nature  herself,  they  are  alike  archi- 
tects and  judges.  It  must  be  so.  It  always  has  been  so  time 
out  of  mind  in  point  of  fact.  And  then  he  wondered  why 
they  were  so  patient  of  constraint  ?  Why  had  they  not  risen 
long  ago  and  obliterated  the  pretensions  of  those  arrogant,  in- 
dolent larvae  peopling  the  angular  apertures  of  the  honey  cells 
— those  larvae  of  whom,  by  birth  and  wealth,  sinfulness  and 
uselcssness,  he  was  himself  so  conspicuous  an  example  ? 

But  then  still  clearer  understanding  of  this  v/hole  strange 
matter  came  to  him. — They,  like  all  else, — mighty  though 
they  are  in  their  corporate  intention, — are  obedient  to  fate. 
They  can  only  act  when  the  time  is  ripe.  And  then  he  un- 
derstood yet  more  clearly.  Their  purpose  in  congregating 
here,  whether  they  were  conscious  of  it  or  not,  was  retribu- 
tive. They  were  present  to  witness  and  to  accomplish  an 
act  of  foreordained  justice. — Richard  paused  a  moment,  strug- 
gling with  his  own  thought.  And  then  he  saw  quite  plainly 
that  he  himself  was  the  object  of  that  act  of  foreordained 
justice,  he  himself  was  the  centre  of  that  dimly-apprehended, 
approaching  event.  His  punishment,  his  deliverance  by  means 
of  that  punishment,  was  that  which  had  brought  this  great 
multitude  together  here  to-night.  He  was  awed.  Yet  with 
that  awe  came  thankfulness,  gratitude,  an  immense  sense  of 
relief.  He  need  not  seek  self-obliteration,  losing  himself  in 
far-away,  tropic  islands,  or  the  ice-bound  regions  of  the  utter- 
most South.  He  could  stay  here.  Sit  quite  still  even — and 
that  was  well,  for  he  was  horribly  tired  and  spent.  He  need 
only  wait.  When  the  time  was  ripe,  they  would  do  all  the 
rest — do  it  for  him  by  doing  it  to  him. — How  finely  simple  it 


SiO.  Sir  RICHARD  CALMADY 

all  was !  Incidentally  he  wondered  if  it  would  hurt  very 
much.  Not  that  that  mattered,  for  beyond  lay  peace.  Only 
he  hoped  they  would  get  to  work  pretty  soon,  so  that  it  might 
be  over  before  the  end  of  the  second  act,  when  Powell,  the 
valet,  would  come  back. 

Richard^s  face  had  grown  very  youthful  and  eager.  His 
eyes  were  unnaturally  bright.  And  still  he  gazed  down  at 
that  great  company.  His  heart  went  out  to  it.  He  loved  it, 
loved  each  and  every  member  of  it,  as  he  had  never  conceived 
of  loving  heretofore.  He  would  like  to  have  gone  down 
among  them  and  become  part  of  them,  one  with  them  in  pur- 
pose, a  partaker  of  their  corporate  strength.  But  that  was 
forbidden.  They  were  his  preordained  executioners.  Yet  in 
that  capacity  they  were  not  the  less,  but  the  more,  lovable^ 
They  were  welcome  to  exact  full  justice.  He  longed  after 
them,  longed  after  the  pain  it  was  their  mission  to  inflict. — 
And  they  were  getting  ready,  surely  they  were  getting  ready  ! 
There  was  a  sensible  movement  among  them.  They  turned 
pale  faces  away  from  the  brilliantly  lighted  stage,  and  towards 
the  great  horseshoe  of  waxen  cells  enclosing  them.  They 
were  busy,  dull-coloured  insects  again,  and  they  buzzed — re- 
sentfully, angrily,  they  buzzed. 

Yet  even  while  Dickie  noted  all  this,  greatly  moved  by  it, 
appreciating  its  inner  meaning,  its  profound  relation  to  him- 
self and  the  drama  of  his  own  existence,  he  was  not  wholly 
unmindful  of  the  progress  of  the  opera  and  the  charm  of  the 
graceful  and  fluent  music  which  saluted  his  ears.  He  was 
aware  of  the  entrance  of  the  hero,  of  his  greeting  by  his 
motley-clad  followers.  He  felt  kindly,  just  off  the  surface  of 
his  emotion  so  to  speak,  towards  this  impersonator  of  Ernani. 
The  young  actor's  appearance  was  attractive,  his  voice  fresh 
and  sympathetic,  his  bearing  modest.  But  the  aristocratic 
occupants  of  the  boxes  treated  him  cavalierly.  The  famous 
Milanese  tenor,  whose  name  was  on  the  programme,  having 
failed  to  arrive,  this  local,  and  comparatively  inexperienced, 
artist  had  been  called  upon  to  fill  his  part.  Therefore  the 
smart  world  talked  more  loudly  than  before,  while  the  demo- 
cratic occupants  of  the  parterre^  jealous  for  the  reputation  of 
their  fellow-citizen,  broke  forth  into  stormy  protest.  And 
Richard  could  have  found  it  in  his  heart  to  protest  also.  For 
it  was  waste  of  energy,  this  senseless  conflict !     It  was  un- 


RAKE'S  PROGRESS  531 

worthy  of  the  dignity  of  that  dull-coloured  multitude,  on 
whom  his  hopes  were  so  strangely  set — of  the  men  in  whose 
hands  are  the  final  rewards  and  punishments,  by  whose  voice 
the  final  judgment  is  pronounced.  It  pained  him  to  see  these 
ministers  of  the  Eternal  Justice  thus  led  away  by  trivial  hap- 
penings, and  their  attention  distracted  from  the  main  issue. 
For  what,  in  God's  name,  did  he  and  his  sentimental  love- 
carrollings  amount  to,  this  pretty  fellow  of  a  player,  this  fic- 
titious hero  of  the  modern,  Neapolitan,  operatic  stage  ? 
Weighed  in  the  balances,  he  and  his  whole  occupation  and 
calling  were  lighter,  surely,  than  vanity  itself  ?  Rightly  con- 
sidered, he  and  his  singing  were  but  as  a  spangle,  as  some 
glittering  trifle  of  tinsel,  upon  the  veil  still  hiding  the  awful, 
yet  benign,  countenance  of  that  tremendous  and  so  surely  ap- 
proaching event. — Let  him  sing  away,  then,  sing  in  peace. 
For  the  sound  of  his  singing  might  help  to  lighten  the  weari- 
ness of  the  hours  until  the  supreme  hour  should  strike,  and  the 
glittering  veil  be  torn  asunder,  and  the  countenance  it  covered 
be  at  last  and  wholly  revealed. 

Reasoning  thus,  Richard  raised  his  opera  glasses  and  swept 
those  many  superimposed  ranges  of  waxen  cells.  And  the 
aspect  of  them  was  to  him  very  sinister,  for  everywhere  he 
seemed  to  encounter  soft,  voluptuous,  brainless  faces,  violences 
of  hot  colour,  and  costly  clothing  cunningly  devised  to 
heighten  the  physical  allurements  of  womanhood.  Every- 
where, beside  and  behind  these,  he  seemed  to  encounter  the 
faces  of  men,  gluttonous  of  pleasure,  hungering  for  those  gen- 
erously-discovered, material  charms.  They  were  veritable 
antechambers  of  vice,  those  angular-mouthed,  waxen  cells. 
And,  therefore,  very  fittingly,  as  he  reflected,  he  had  his  place 
in  one  of  them,  since  he  was  infected  by  the  vices,  active  par- 
taker in  the  sensuality,  of  his  class. — Oh  !  that  the  bees  would 
swarm — swarm,  and  make  short  work  of  it  all,  inflict  com- 
pleteness of  punishment,  and  thereby  cleanse  him  and  set  him 
free  !  In  its  intensity  his  longing  came  near  taking  the  form 
of  articulate  prayer. 

And  then  his  thought  shifted  once  more,  attaching  itself 
curiously,  speculatively,  to  individual  objects.  For  his  survey 
of  the  house  had  just  now  brought  a  box  into  view,  situated 
on  the  grand  tier  and  almost  immediately  opposite  his  own. 
It  was  occupied  by  a   party  of  six  persons.     With  four  of 


53i  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

those  persons  Richard  was  aware  he  had  nothing  to  do.  But 
with  the  remaining  two  persons — a  woman  fashioned,  as  it 
appeared,  of  ivory  and  gold,  and  a  young  man  standing  almost 
directly  behind  her — he  had  much,  everything,  in  fact,  to  do. 
It  was  incomprehensible  to  him  that  he  had  not  observed  these 
two  persons  sooner,  since  they  were  as  necessary  to  the  accom- 
plishment of  that  terrible,  yet  beneficent,  approaching  event  as 
he  himself  was.  The  woman  he  knew  actually  and  intimately, 
though  as  yet  he  could  give  her  no  name,  nor  recall  in  what 
his  knowledge  of  her  consisted.  The  young  man  he  knew 
inferentially.  And  Dickie  was  sensible  of  regarding  him  with 
instinctive  repulsion,  since  his  appearance  presented  a  living 
and  grossly  ribald  caricature  of  a  figure  august,  worshipful, 
and  holy.  Long  and  closely  Richard  studied  those  two  per- 
sons, studied  them,  forgetful  of  all  else,  straining  his  memory 
to  place  them.     And  all  the  while  they  talked. 

But,  at  last,  the  woman  fashioned  of  ivory  and  gold  ceased 
talking.  She  folded  her  arms  upon  the  velvet  cushion  of  the 
front  of  the  box  and  gazed  right  out  into  the  theatre.  There 
was  a  splendid  arrogance  in  the  pose  of  her  head,  and  in  the 
droop  of  her  eyelids.  Then  she  looked  up  and  across,  straight 
at  Richard.  He  saw  her  drooping  eyelids  raised,  her  eyes 
open  wide,  and  remain  fixed  as  in  amazement.  A  something 
alert,  and  very  fierce,  came  into  her  expression.  She  seemed 
to  think  carefully  for  a  brief  space.  She  threw  back  her  head, 
and  he  saw  uncontrollable  laughter  convulse  her  beautiful 
throat.  And,  at  that  same  moment,  a  mighty  outburst  of 
applause  and  of  welcome  shook  the  great  theatre  from  floor  to 
ceiling,  and,  as  it  died  away,  the  voice  of  the  famous  soprano^ 
rich  and  compelling  as  of  old,  swelled  out,  and  made  vibrant 
with  passionate  sweetness  the  whole  atmosphere.  And  Rich- 
ard hailed  that  glorious  voice,  not  that  in  itself  it  moved  him 
greatly,  but  because  in  it  he  recognised  the  beginning  of  the 
end.  It  came  as  prelude  to  catastrophe  which  was  also  sal- 
vation.— Very  soon  the  bees  would  swarm  nowl  He  rallied 
his  patience.     He  had  not  much  longer  to  wait. 

Meanwhile  he  looked  back  at  that  box  on  the  grand  tier, 
striving  to  unriddle  the  mystery  of  his  knowledge  of  those  two 
persons.  He  needed  glasses  no  longer.  His  sight  had  be- 
come preternaturally  keen.  Again  the  two  were  talking — and 
about  him,  that  was  somehow  evident.     And,  as  they  talked,  he 


RAKE'S  PROGRESS  533 

beheld  a  being,  exquisitely  formed,  perfect  in  every  part,  Step 
forth  from  between  the  lips  of  the  woman  fashioned  of  ivory 
and  gold.  It  knelt  upon  one  knee.  Over  the  heads  of  the 
vast,  dull-coloured  multitude  of  workers,  those  witnesses  of 
and  participators  in  the  execution  of  Eternal  Justice,  it  gazed 
at  him,  Richard  Calmady,  and  at  him  alone.  And  its  gaze 
enfolded  and  held  him  like  an  embrace.  It  wooed  him,  ex- 
tending its  arms  in  invitation.  It  was  naked  and  unashamed. 
It  was  black — black  as  the  reeking,  liquid  lanes  between  the 
hulls  of  the  many  ships,  over  which  the  screaming  gulls  circled 
seeking  foul  provender,  down  in  Naples  harbour. — And  he 
knew  the  fair  woman  it  came  forth  from  for  Helen  de  Val- 
lorbes,  herself,  in  her  crocus-yellow  govv^n  sewn  with  seed 
pearls.  And  he  knew  it  for  the  immortal  soul  of  her.  And 
he  perceived,  moreover,  as  it  smiied  on  and  beckoned  him 
with  lascivious  gestures,  that  its  hands  and  its  lips  were  bloody, 
since  it  had  broken  the  hearts  of  living  women  and  torn  and 
devoured  the  honour  of  living  men. 

''  Ernanl^  Ernani^  involami  " — still  the  air  was  vibrant  with 
that  glorious  voice.  But  the  love  of  which  it  was  the  ex- 
ponent, the  flight  which  It  counseled,  had  ceased,  to  Richard's 
hearing,  to  bear  relation  to  that  which  is  earthly,  concrete,  and 
of  the  senses.  The  passion  and  promise  of  it  were  alike 
turned  to  nobler  and  more  permanent  uses,  presaging  the  quick 
coming  of  expiation  and  of  reconciliation  contained  In  that 
supreme  event.  For  he  knew  that,  in  a  little  moment,  Helen 
must  arise  and  follow  the  soul  which  had  gone  forth  from  her 
—-the  soul  of  which,  in  all  its  admirable  perfection  of  outward 
form  and  blackness  of  intimate  lies  and  lust,  was  close  to  him 
— though  he  no  longer  actually  beheld  it — here,  beside  him, 
laying  subtle  siege  to  him  even  yet.  Where  It  went,  there, 
of  necessity,  she  who  owned  it  must  shortly  follow,  since  soul 
and  body  cannot  remain  apart,  save  for  the  briefest  space, 
until  death  effect  their  final  divorce.  Therefore  Helen  would 
come  speedily.  It  could  not  be  otherwise — so,  at  least,  he 
argued.  And  her  coming  meant  the  culmination.  Then, 
time  being  fully  ripe,  the  bees  would  swarm,  swarm  at  last, — 
labour  revenging  itself  upon  sloth,  hunger  upon  gluttony,  want 
upon  wealth,  obscurity  upon  privilege, — justice  being  thus 
meted  out,  and  he,  Richard,  cleansed  and  delivered  from  the 


534  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

disgrace  of  deformity  now  so  hideously  infecting  both  his 
spirit  and  his  flesh. 

Of  this  he  was  so  well  assured  that,  disregarding  the  felt, 
though  unseen,  presence  of  that  errant  soul,  disdaining  to  do 
battle  with  it,  he  leaned  forward  once  more,  looking  down  into 
the  close-packed  arena  of  the  great  theatre.  All  those  bril- 
liant figures,  members  of  his  own  class,  here  present,  were 
matter  of  indifference  to  him.  In  this  moment  of  conscious 
and  supreme  farewell,  it  was  to  the  dull-coloured  multitude 
that  he  turned.  They  still  moved  him  to  sympathy.  Uncon- 
sciously they  had  enlightened  him  concerning  matters  of  in- 
finite moment.  At  their  hands  he  would  receive  penance  and 
absolution.  Before  they  dealt  more  closely  with  him, — since 
that  dealing  must  involve  suffering  which  might  temporarily 
cloud  his  friendship  for  them, — he  wanted  to  bid  them  farewell 
and  assure  them  of  his  conviction  of  the  righteousness  of 
their  corporate  action.  So,  silently,  he  blessed  them,  taking 
leave  of  them  in  peace.  Then  he  found  there  were  other 
farewells  to  be  said. — Farewell  to  earthly  life  as  he  had  known 
it,  the  struggle  and  very  frequent  anguish  of  it,  its  many  frus- 
trated purposes,  fair  illusions,  unfulfilled  hopes.  He  must  bid 
farewell,  moreover,  to  art  as  he  had  relished  it — to  learning, 
as  he  had  all  too  intermittently  pursued  it — to  travel,  as  he  had 
found  solace  in  it — to  the  inexhaustible  interest,  the  inex- 
tinguishable humour  and  pathos,  in  brief,  of  things  seen. 
And,  reviewing  all  this,  a  profound  nostalgia  of  all  those  minor 
happinesses  which  are  the  natural  inheritance  of  the  average 
man  arose  in  him — happiness  of  healthy,  light-hearted  activ- 
ities, not  only  of  the  athlete  and  the  fighting-man,  but  of  the 
playing-field,  and  the  ball-room,  and  the  river — happinesses  to 
him  inevitably  denied.  With  an  almost  boyish  passion  of 
longing,  he  cried  out  for  these. — Just  for  one  day  to  have 
lived  with  the  ease  and  freedom  with  which  the  vast  majority 
of  men  habitually  live  !  Just  for  one  day  to  have  been  neither 
dwarf  nor  cripple,  but  to  have  taken  his  place  and  his  chance 
with  the  rest,  before  it  all  was  over  and  the  tale  told  ! 

But  very  soon  Richard  put  these  thoughts  from  him,  deem- 
ing it  unworthy  to  dwell  upon  them  at  this  juncture.  The 
call  was  to  go  forward,  not  to  go  back.  So  he  settled  himself 
in  his  chair  once  more,  pulling  the  velvet  drapery  forward  so 
as  to  shut  out  the  sight  of  the  house.     Bitterness  should  have 


RAKE'S  PROGRESS  I35 

no  part  in  him.  When  that  happened  which  was  appointed 
to  happen,  it  must  find  him  not  only  acquiescent  but  serene 
and  undisturbed.  He  composed  himself,  therefore,  with  a 
•decent  and  even  lofty  pride.  Then  he  turned  his  eyes  upon 
the  narrow  door,  there  in  the  semi-obscurity  of  the  back  of 
the  box,  and  waited.  And  all  the  while  royally,  triumphantly, 
Morbita  sang. 

During  tliat  period  of  waiting — whether  in  itself  brief  or 
prolonged,  he  knew  not — sensation  and  thought  alike  were 
curiously  in  abeyance.  Richard  neither  slept  nor  woke.  He 
knew  that  he  existed,  but  all  active  relation  to  being  had 
ceased.  And  it  was  with  painful  effort  he  in  a  measure  re- 
turned to  more  ordinary  correspondence  with  fact,  aroused  by 
the  sound  of  low-toned,  emphatic  speech  close  at  hand,  and 
by  a  scratching  as  of  some  animal  denied  and  seeking  admit- 
tance. Then  he  perceived  that  the  door  yielded,  letting  in  < 
spread  of  yellow  brightness  from  the  corridor.  And  in  thv 
midst  of  that  brightness,  part  and  parcel  of  it  thanks  to  th^. 
lustre  of  her  crocus-yellow  dress,  her  honey-coloured  hair,  hei 
fair  skin  and  softly-gleaming  ornaments,  stood  Helen  de  Val- 
lorbes.  Behind  her,  momentarily,  Richard  caught  sight  of 
the  young  man  whose  face  had  impressed  him  as  a  ribald 
travesty  of  that  of  some  being  altogether  worshipful  and  holy. 
The  face  peered  at  him  with,  as  it  seemed,  malicious  curiosity 
over  the  rounded  shoulder  of  the  woman  of  ivoiy  and  gold, 
The  effect  was  very  hateful,  and,  with  a  sense  of  thankfulness, 
Richard  saw  Helen  close  the  door  and  come,  alone,  down  the 
two  steps  leading  from  the  back  of  the  box.  As  she  passed 
from  the  dimness  into  the  clearer  light,  he  watched  her,  quies^ 
cent,  yet  with  absorbing  interest.  For  he  perceived  that  the 
hands  of  the  clock  had  been  put  back  somehow.  Intervening 
years  and  the  many  events  of  them  had  ceased  to  obtain,  so 
that,  of  all  the  many  Helens,  enchanting  or  evil,  whom  he  had 
come  to  know,  he  saw  now  only  one,  and  that  the  first  and 
earliest — a  little  dancer,  with  blush-roses  in  her  hat,  dainty  aa 
a  toy,  finished  to  her  rosy  finger-tips  and  the  toes  of  her  pretty 
shoes,  merry  and  merciless,  as  she  had  pirouetted  round  him 
mocking  his  shuffling,  uncertain  progress  across  the  Chapel- 
Room  at  Brockhurst  fifteen  years  ago. 

"  Ah  !  so  you  have  come  back  !  "  he  exclaimed,  almost  in^ 
voluntarily. 


536  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

Madam  de  Vallorbes  pushed  a  chair  from  the  front  of  the 
box  into  the  shadow  of  the  velvet  draperies  beside  Richard. 

"  It  is  unnecessary  that  all  Naples  should  take  part  in  our 
interview,"  she  said.  She  sat  down,  turning  to  him,  leaning  a 
little  towards  him. 

"  You  do  not  deserve  that  I  should  come  back,  you  know, 
Dickie,"  she  continued.  "  You  both  deserted  and  deceived 
me.  That  is  hardly  chivalrous,  hardly  just  indeed,  after  ta- 
king all  a  woman  has  to  give.  You  led  me  to  suppose  you  had 
departed  for  good  and  all.     Why  should  you  deceive  me  ?  " 

''  The  yacht  was  not  ready  for  sea,"  Richard  said  simply* 

'^  Then  you  might,  in  common  charity,  have  let  me  know 
that.  You  were  bound  to  give  me  an  opportunity  of  speaking 
to  you  once  again,  I  think." 

In  his  present  state  of  detachment  from  all  worldly  consid- 
erations, absolute  truthfulness  compelled  Richard.  The  event 
was  so  certain,  the  swarming  of  the  bees  so  very  near,  that  small 
diplomacies,  small  evasions,  seemed  absurdly  out  of  place. 

''  I  did  not  want  to  hear  you  speak,"  he  said. 

''  But  doesn't  it  strike  you  that  was  rather  dastardly  in  face 
of  what  had  taken  place  between  us  ?  Do  you  know  that  you 
appear  in  a  new  and  far  from  becoming  light  ?  " 

Denial  seemed  to  Richard  futile.     He  remained  silent. 

For  a  moment  Helen  looked  towards  the  stage.  When  she 
spoke  again  it  was  as  with  reluctance. 

"  I  was  desperately  unhappy.  I  went  all  over  the  villa  in 
the  vain  hope  of  finding  you.  I  went  back  to  that  room  of 
yours  in  which  we  parted.  I  wanted  to  see  it  again." — 
Helen  paused.  Her  speech  was  low-toned,  soft  as  milk. — "  It 
was  rather  dreadful,  Dickie,  for  the  place  was  all  in  disarray, 
littered  with  signs  of  your  hasty  departure,  damp,  cheerless — 
the  rain  beating  against  the  windows.  And  I  hate  rain.  I 
found  there,  not  you — v/hom  I  so  sorely  wanted — but  some- 
thing very  much  else. — A  letter  to  you  from  de  Vallorbes." — 
Once  more  she  paused.  "  I  excuse  you  of  anything  worse 
than  negligence  in  omitting  to  destroy  it.  Misery  knows  no 
law,  and  I  was  miserable.     I  read  it." 

Richard  had  listened  with  the  same  detachment.^  yet  the 
same  absorbed  interest,  with  which  he  had  watched  her  en- 
trance. She  was  a  wonderful  creature  in  her  adroitness,  in 
her  handling  of  means  to  serve  her  own  ends  !     But  he  could 


RAKE'S  PROGRESS  537 

not  pay  her  back  in  her  own  coin.  The  time  was  too  short 
lor  anything  but  simple  truth.  He  felt  strangely  tired.  These 
reiterated  delays  became  harassing.  If  the  bees  would  swarm^ 
only  swarm  !  Then  it  would  be  over,  and  he  could  sleep.  He 
clasped  his  hands  behind  his  head  and  looked  at  Madame  de 
Vallorbes.  Her  soul  kneeled  on  her  lap,  its  delicate  arms 
were  clasped  about  her  neck — black  against  the  lustrous  white 
of  her  skin  and  all  those  twisted  ropes  of  seed  pearls.  It 
pressed  its  breasts  against  hers,  amorously.  It  loved  her  and 
she  it.  And  he  understood  that  in  the  whole  scope  of  nature 
there  was  but  it  alone,  it  only,  that  she  ever  had  loved,  or  did^ 
or  could,  love.  And,  understanding  this,  he  was  filled  with  a 
great  compassion  for  her.  And,  answering  her,  his  expression 
was  gentle  and   pitiful.     Still   he  needs  must  speak  the  truth. 

"  Perhaps  it  was  as  well  that  you  should  read  Luigi's  letter,"" 
he  said. 

She  turned  upon  him  fiercely  and  scornfully,  yet  even  as  she 
did  so  her  soul  fell  to  beckoning  to  him,  soliciting  him  with 
evilly  alluring  gestures. 

"  My  congratulations  to  you,"  she  exclaimed,  "  upon  your 
praiseworthy  candour !  I  am  to  gather,  then,  that  you  believe 
that  which  my  husband  advises  himself  to  tell  you  ?  Under 
the  circumstances  it  is  exceedingly  convenient  to  you  to  do  so^ 
no  doubt." 

"  How  can  I  avoid  believing  it  ? "  Richard  asked,  quite 
sweet-temperedly.  "  Surely  wc  need  not  waste  the  little  time 
which  remains  in  argument  as  to  that  ?  You  must  admit^ 
Helen,  that  Luigi's  letter  fits  in.  It  supplies  just  the  piece  of 
the  puzzle  which  was  missing.     It  tallies  with  all  the  rest." 

"  All  the  rest  ?  " 

"  Oh  yes !  It  is  part  of  the  whole,  precisely  that  part  both 
of  you  and  of  Naples  which  I  knew,  and  tried  so  hard  not  to 
know,  from  the  first.  But  it  is  worse  than  useless  to  practice 
such  refusals.  The  Whole,  and  nothing  less  than  the  whole, 
is  bound  to  get  one  in  the  end.  It  is  contrary  to  the  nature 
of  things  that  any  integral  portion  of  the  whole  should  sub- 
mit to  permanent  denial." — Richard's  voice  deepened.  He 
spoke  with  a  subdued  enthusiasm,  thinking  of  the  dull-col- 
oured multitude  there  in  the  arena  and  the  act  of  retributive 
justice  on  the  eve,  by  them,  of  accomplishment. — "  It  seems 
to  me  the  radical  weakness  of  all  human  institutions,  of  all  sys- 


538  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

tems  of  thought,  resides  in  exactly  that  effort  to  select  and  re« 
ject,  to  exalt  one  part  as  against  another  part,  and  so  build  not 
upon  the  rock  of  unity  and  completeness,  but  upon  the  sand 
of  partiality  and  division.  And  sooner  or  later  the  Whole 
revenges  itself,  and  the  fine-fanciful  fabric  crumbles  to  ruin, 
just  for  lack  of  that  which  in  our  short-sighted  over-niceness 
we  have  taken  such  mighty  great  pains  to  miss  out.  This  has 
happened  times  out  of  number  in  respect  of  religions,  and 
philosophies,  and  the  constitution  of  kingdoms,  and  in  that 
of  fair  romances  which  promised  to  stand  firm  to  all  eternity. 
And  now,  now,  in  these  last  few  days, — since  laws  which 
rule  the  general,  also  rule  the  individual  life, — it  has  happened 
in  respect  of  you,  Helen,  to  my  seeing,  and  in  respect  of 
Naples." — Richard  smiled  upon  her  sadly  and  very  sweetly. — 
"I  am  sorry,"  he  said,  "yes,  indeed,  horribly  sorry.  It  is  a 
bitter  thing  to  see  the  last  of  one's  gods  go  overboard.  But 
there  is  no  remedy.     Sorry  or  not,  so  it  is." 

Madame  de  Vallorbes  looked  at  him  keenly.  Her  attitude 
was  strained.     Her  face  sombre  with  thought. 

"  My  God  !  my  God  !  "  she  exclaimed,  "  that  I  should  sit 
and  listen  to  all  this  !  And  yet  you  were  never  more  attract- 
ive. There  is  an  unnatural  force,  unnatural  beauty  about  you. 
You  are  ill,  Richard.  You  look  and  you  speak  as  a  man  might 
who  was  about  to  join  hands  with  death." 

But  Dickie's  attention  had  wandered  again.  He  pulled  the 
velvet  drapery  aside  somewhat,  and  gazed  down  into  the 
crowded  house.  They  lingered  strangely  in  the  performance 
of  their  mission,  that  dull-coloured  multitude  of  workers  ! — 
Just  then  came  another  mighty  outburst  of  applause,  cries, 
vivas^  the  famous  soprano's  name  called  aloud.  The  sound 
was  stimulating,  as  the  shout  of  a  victorious  army.  Richard 
hailed  it  as  a  sign  of  speedy  deliverance,  and  sank  back  into 
his  place. 

"  Oh  yes  ! "  he  said  civilly  and  lightly,  "  I  fancy  I  am 
pretty  bad.  I  am  a  bit  sick  of  this  continued  delay,  you  see. 
I  suppose  they  know  their  own  business  best,  but  they  do 
seem  most  infernally  slow  in  getting  under  weigh.  I  was 
ready  hours  ago.  However,  they  must  be  nearly  through  with 
preliminaries  now.  And  when  once  we're  fairly  into  it,  I 
>hall  be  all  right." 

"  You  mean  when  the  yacht  sails  ?  "  Madame  de  Vallorbes 


RAKE'S  PROGRESS  539^ 

asked.  Still  she  looked  at  him  intently.  He  turned  to  her 
smiling,  and  she  observed  that  his  eyes  had  ceased  to  be  as 
windows  opening  back  on  to  empty  space.  They  were  lumi- 
nous with  a  certain  gay  content. 

"  Yes,  of  course — when  the  yacht  sails,  if  you  like  to  put 
it  that  way,"  he  answered. 

"  And  when  will  that  be  ?  " 

The  shout  of  the  arena  grew  louder  in  the  recall.  It  surged 
up  to  the  roof  and  quivered  along  the  lath  and  plaster  parti- 
tions of  the  boxes. 

"  Very  soon  now.  Immediately,  I  think,  please  God,"  he 
said. — But  why  should  she  make  him  speak  thus  foolishly  ia 
riddles  ?  Of  a  surety  she  must  read  the  signs  of  the  approach 
of  that  momentous  and  beneficent  event  as  clearly  as  he  him- 
self! Was  she  not  equally  with  himself  involved  in  it?' 
Was  she  not,  like  himself,  to  be  cleansed  and  set  free  by  it  f 
Therefore  it  came  as  a  painful  bewilderment  and  shock  to  him 
when  she  drew  closer  to  him,  leaned  forward,  laid  her  hand 
lightly  upon  his  thigh. 

"  Richard,"  she  said,  very  softly,  "  I  forgive  all.  I  am  not 
satisfied  with  loving.  I  will  come  with  you.  I  will  stay  with 
you.  I  will  be  faithful  to  you — yes,  yes,  even  that.  Your 
loving  is  unlike  any  other.  It  is  unique,  as  you  yourself  are 
unique.     I — I  want  more  of  it." 

"  But  you  must  know  that  it  is  too  late  to  go  back  on  that 
now,"  he  said,  reasoning  with  her,  greatly  perplexed  and  dis- 
tressed by  her  determined  ignoring  of — to  him — self-evident 
fact.     "  All  that  side  of  things  for  us  is  over  and  done  with."" 

Her  lips  parted  in  naughty  laughter.  And  then,  not  with- 
out a  shrinking  of  quick  horror,  Richard  beheld  the  soul  of 
her — that  being  of  lovely  proportions,  exquisitely  formed  in 
every  part,  yet  black  as  the  foul,  liquid  lanes  between  the  hulls 
of  the  many  ships  down  in  Naples  harbour — step  delicately 
in  between  those  parted  lips,  returning  whence  it  came.  And^ 
beholding  this,  instinctively  he  raised  her  hand  from  where  it 
rested  upon  his  thigh,  and  put  it  from  him,  put  it  upon  her 
glistering,  crocus-yellow  lap  where  her  soul  had  so  lately 
kneeled. 

"  Let  us  say  no  more,  Helen,"  he  entreated,  "  lest  we  both 
forfeit  our  remaining  chance,  and  become  involved  in  hopeless 
and  final  condemnation." 


540  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

But  Madame  de  Vallorbes'  anger  rose  to  overwhelming 
height.     She  slapped  her  hands  together. 

"  Ah,  you  despise  me  !  "  she  cried.  "  But  let  me  assure 
you  that  in  any  case  this  assumption  of  virtue  becomes  you 
singularly  ill.  It  really  is  a  little  bit  too  cheap,  a  work  of 
supererogation  in  the  matter  of  hypocrisy.  Have  the  courage 
of  your  vices.  Be  honest.  You  can  be  so  to  the  point  of 
insult  when  it  serves  your  purpose.  Own  that  you  are  capri- 
cious, own  that  you  have  lighted  upon  some  woman  who  pro- 
vokes your  appetite  more  than  I  do !  I  have  been  too  tender 
of  you,  too  lenient  with  you.  I  have  loved  too  much  and 
been  weakly  desirous  to  please.  Own  that  you  are  tired  of 
me,  that  you  no  longer  care  for  me  !  " 

And  he  answered,  sadly  enough  : — 

"  Yes,  that  last  is  true.  Having  seen  the  Whole,  that  has 
happened  which  I  always  dreaded  might  happen.  The  last  of 
my  self-made  gods  has  indeed  gone  overboard.  I  care  for  you 
no  longer.*' 

Helen  sprang  up  from  her  chair,  ran  to  the  door,  flung  it 
©pen.  The  first  act  of  the  opera  was  concluded.  The  cur- 
tain had  come  down.  The  house  below  and  around,  the 
corridor  without,  were  full  of  confused  noise  and  move- 
ment. 

"  Paul,  M.  Destournelle,  come  here,"  she  cried,  "  and  at 
once !  " 

But  Richard  was  more  than  ever  tired.  The  strain  of 
waiting  had  been  too  prolonged.  Lights,  draperies,  figures, 
the  crowded  arena,  the  vast  honeycomb  of  boxes,  tier  above 
tier,  swam  before  his  eyes,  blurred,  indistinct,  vague,  shifting, 
colossal  in  height,  giddy  in  depth.  The  bees  were  swarming, 
at  last,  swarming  upward  through  seas  of  iridescent  mist. 
But  he  had  no  longer  empire  over  his  own  attitude  and 
thoughts.  He  had  hoped  to  meet  the  supreme  moment  in  full 
consciousness,  with  clear  vision  and  thankfulness  of  heart. 
But  he  was  too  tired  to  do  so,  tired  in  brain  and  body  alike. 
And  so  it  happened  that  a  dogged  endurance  grew  on  him, 
dimply  a  setting  of  the  teeth  and  bracing  of  himself  to  suffer 
silently,  even  stupidly,  all  that  might  be  in  store.  For  the 
bees  were  close  upon  him  now,  countless  in  number,  angry, 
grudging,  violent.  But  they  no  longer  appeared  as  insects. 
They  were  human,  save  for  their  velvet-like,  expressionless 


RAKE'S  PROGRESS  541 

eyes.  And  all  those  eyes  were  fixed  upon  him,  and  him 
alone.  He  was  the  centre  towards  which,  in  thought  and 
action,  all  turned.  Nor  were  the  dull-coloured  occupants  of 
the  parterre  alone  in  their  attack.  For  those  gay-coloured 
larvae — the  men  and  women  of  his  own  class — indolent^ 
licentious,  full-fed,  hung  out  of  the  angular  mouths  of  the 
waxen  cells,  above  the  crimson  and  gold  of  their  cushions^ 
pointing  at  him,  claiming  and  yet  denouncing  him.  And  in  the 
attitude  of  these  the  democratic  and  the  aristocratic  sections — ^ 
he  detected  a  difference.  The  former  swarmed  to  inflict 
punishment  for  his  selfishness,  uselessness,  sensuality.  But 
the  latter  jeered  and  mocked  at  his  bodily  infirmity,  deriding 
his  deformity,  making  merry  over  his  shortened  limbs  and 
shuffling  walk.  And  against  this  background,  against  this  all- 
enclosing  tapestry  of  faces  which  encircled  him,  two  per- 
sons, and  the  atmosphere  and  aroma  of  them,  so  to  spcak^ 
were  clearly  defined.  They  were  close  to  him,  here  within 
the  narrow  limits  of  the  opera  box.  Then  a  great  humilia- 
tion overtook  Richard,  perceiving  that  they,  and  not  the 
people,  the  workers,  august  in  their  corporate  power  and 
strength,  were  to  be  his  executioners. — No — no — he  wasn't 
worth  that  !  And,  for  all  his  present  dulness  of  sensation,  a 
sob  rose  in  his  throat.  Madame  de  Vallorbes,  resplendent  in 
crocus-yellow  brocade,  costly  lace,  and  seed  pearls,  the  young 
man,  her  companion — the  young  man  of  the  light,  forked 
beard,  domed  skull,  vain  eyes  and  peevish  mouth — the  young 
man  of  holy  and  dissolute  aspect — were  good  enough  instru- 
ments for  the  Eternal  Justice  to  employ  in  respect  of  him, 
Richard  Calmady. 

"Look,  M.  Destournelle,"  Helen  said  very  quietly,  ''this 
is  my  cousin  of  whom  I  have  already  spoken  to  you.  But  I 
wished  to  spare  him  if  possible,  and  give  him  room  for  self- 
justification,  so  I  did  not  tell  you  all.  Richard,  this  is  my 
friend,  M.  Destournelle,  to  whom  my  honour  and  happiness 
are  not  wholly  indifferent." 

Dickie  looked  up.  He  did  not  speak.  Vaguely  he  prayed 
it  might  all  soon  be  over.  Paul  Destournelle  looked  down. 
He  raised  his  eye-glass  and  bowed  himself,  examining  Richard's 
mutilated  legs  and  strangely-shod  feet.  He  broke  into  a 
little,  bleating,  goat-like  laugh. 

^^Mais  c'est  etonnant !  "  he  observed  reflectively. 


542  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

"I  was  in  his  house,"  Helen  continued.  "I  was  there 
unprotected,  having  absolute  faith  in  his  loyalty." — She 
paused  a  moment.  "  He  seduced  me.  Richard  can  you  deny 
that  ?  " 

^^  Canaille  !  "  M.  Destournelle  murmured.  He  drew  a  pair 
of  gloves  through  his  hands,  holding  them  by  the  finger-tips. 
The  metal  buttons  of  them  were  large,  three  on  each  wrist. 
Those  gloves  arrested  Richard's  attention  oddly, 

"  I  do  not  deny  it,  "  Dickie  said. 

"  And  having  thus  outraged,  he  deserted  me.  Do  you  deny 
that  ?  " 

"  No,"  Dickie  said  again.  For  it  was  true,  that  which  she 
asserted,  true,  though  penetrated  by  subtle  falsehood  im- 
possible, as  it  seemed  to  him,  to  combat, — "No,  I  do  not 
<ieny  it." 

"  You  hear !  "  Helen  exclaimed.  "  Now  do  what  you 
think  fit." 

Still  Destournelle  drew  the  gloves  through  his  hands,  hold- 
ing them  by  the  finger-tips. 

"  Under  other  circumstances  I  might  feel  myself  compelled 
to  do  you  the  honour  of  sending  you  a  challenge,  monsieur^^ 
he  said.  '^  But  a  man  of  sensibility  like  myself  cannot  do 
^uch  violence  to  his  moral  and  artistic  code  as  to  fight  with  an 
outcast  of  nature,  an  abortion,  such  as  yourself.  The  sword 
and  the  pistol  I  necessarily  reserve  for  my  equals.  The  de- 
formed person,  the  cripple,  whose  very  existence  is  an  off^ense 
to  the  eye  and  to  every  delicacy  of  sense,  must  be  con- 
descended to,  and,  if  chastised  at  all,  must  be  chastised  with- 
out ceremony,  chastised  as  one  would  chastise  a  dog." 

And  with  that  he  struck  Richard  again  and  again  across  the 
face  with  those  metal-buttoned  gloves. 

Mad  with  rage,  blinded  and  sick  with  pain,  Dickie  essayed 
to  fling  himself  upon  his  assailant.  But  Destournelle  was  too 
adroit  for  him.  He  skipped  aside,  with  his  little,  bleating, 
goat-like  laugh,  and  Richard  fell  heavily  full  length,  his  fore- 
head coming  in  contact  with  the  lower  step  of  the  descent 
from  the  back  of  the  box.  He  lay  there,  too  weak  to  raise 
iiimself. 

Paul  Destournelle  bent  down  and  again  examined  him 
curiously. 

"CVj/   etonnant!**  he    repeated. — He   gave   the    prostrate 


RAKE'S  PROGRESS  543 

body  a  contemptuous  kick.  "  Dear  madame,  are  you  suffi- 
ciently avenged  ?     Is  it  enough  ?  "  he  inquired  sneeringly. 

And  vaguely,  as  from  some  incalculable  distance,  Richard 
heard  Helen  de  Vallorbes'  voice  : — "  Yes — it  is  a  little  affair 
of  honour  which  dates  from  my  childhood.  It  has  taken 
many  years  in  adjusting.  I  thank  you,  mon  cher^  a  thousand 
times.     Now  let  us  go  quickly.     It  is  enough." 

Then  came  darkness,  silence,  rest. 


BOOK    VI 

THE    NEW   HEAVEN    AND    THE   NEW 

EARTH 


CHAPTER  I 


IN   WHICH    MISS   ST.    QUENTIN    BEARS   WITNESS   TO   THE    FAITH 

THAT  IS  IN  HER 

IIJONORIA  divested  herself  of  her  traveling-cap,  thrust 
her  hands  into  the  pockets  of  her  frieze  ulster,  and 
thus,  bareheaded,  a  tall,  supple,  solitary  figure,  paced  the  rail- 
way platform  in  the  dusk.  Above  the  gentle  undulations  of 
the  western  horizon  splendours  of  rose-crimson  sunset  were 
outspread,  veiled,  as  they  flamed  upward,  by  indigo  cloud  of 
the  texture  and  tenuity  of  finest  gauze.  And  those  same 
rose-crimson  splendours  found  repetition  upon  the  narrow, 
polished  surface  of  the  many  lines  of  rails,  causing  them  to 
stand  out,  as  though  of  red-hot  metal,  from  the  undeterminate 
gray-drab  of  the  track  where  it  curved  away,  southeastward, 
across  the  darkening  country  towards  the  Savoy  Alps.  And 
from  out  the  fastnesses  of  these  last,  quick  with  the  bleak 
purity  of  snow,  came  a  breathing  of  evening  wind.  To 
Honoria  it  brought  refreshing  emphasis  of  silence,  and  of  im- 
munity from  things  human  and  things  mechanical.  It  spoke 
to  her  of  virgin  and  unvisited  spaces,  ignorant  of  mankind 
and  of  obligation  to  his  so  many  and  so  insistent  needs.  And 
there  being  in  Honoria  herself  a  kindred  defiance  of  subjec- 
tion, a  determination,  so  to  speak,  of  physical  and  emotional 
chastity,  she  welcomed  these  intimations  of  the  essential  in- 
violability of  nature,  finding  in  them  justification  and  support 

544 


THE  NEW  HEAVEN  AND  NEW  EARTH  545 

of  her  own  mental  attitude — of  the  entire  wisdom  of  which 
she  had,  it  must  be  owned,  grown  slightly  suspicious  of  late. 

And  this  was  the  more  grateful  to  her,  not  only  as  contrast 
to  the  noise  and  dust  of  a  lengthy  and  hurriedly-undertaken 
journey,  but  because  that  same  journey  had  been  suddenly 
and,  in  a  sense  violently,  imposed  upon  one  whom  she  held 
in  highest  regard,  by  another  whom  she  had  long  since  agreed 
with  herself  to  hold  in  no  sort  of  regard  at  all.  Since  the 
highly-regarded  one  set  forth,  she — Honoria — of  course,  set 
forth  likewise.  And  yet,  in  good  truth,  the  whole  affair 
rubbed  her  not  a  little  the  wrong  way  !  She  recognised  in  it 
a  particularly  flagrant  example  of  masculine  aggression.  Some 
persons,  as  she  reflected,  are  permitted  an  amount  of  elbow 
room  altogether  disproportionate  to  their  deserts.  Be  suffi- 
ciently seltish,  sufficiently  odious,  and  everybody  becomes  your 
humble  servant,  hat  in  hand !  That  is  unfair.  It  is,  indeed, 
quite  extensively  exasperating  to  the  dispassionate  onlooker. 
And,  in  Miss  St.  Quentin's  case,  exasperation  was  by  na 
means  lessened  by  the  fact  that  candour  compelled  her  to  ad- 
mit doubt  not  only  as  to  the  actuality  of  her  own  dispassion- 
ateness, but,  as  has  already  been  stated,  to  the  wisdom  of  her 
mental  attitude  generally.  She  wanted  to  think  and  feel  one 
way.  She  was  more  than  half  afraid  she  was  much  disposed 
to  think  and  feel  quite  another  way.  This  was  worrying.. 
And,  therefore,  it  came  about  that  Honoria  hailed  the  present 
interval  of  silence  and  solitude,  striving  to  put  from  her  re- 
membrance both  the  origin  and  object  of  her  journey,  while 
filling  her  lungs  with  the  snow-fed  purity  of  the  mountain 
wind  and  yielding  her  spirit  to  the  somewhat  serious  influences 
of  surrounding  nature.  All  too  soon  the  great  Paris-express 
would  thunder  into  the  station.  The  heavy,  horse-box-like 
sleeping-car — now  standing  on  the  Culoz-Geneva-Bale  siding 
— would  be  coupled  to  the  rear  of  it.  Then  the  roar  and 
rush  would  begin  again — from  dark  to  dawn,  and  on  through 
the  long,  bright  hours  to  dark  once  more,  by  mountain  gorge, 
and  stifling  tunnel,  and  broken  woodland,  and  smiling  coast- 
line, and  fertile  plain,  past  Chambery,  and  Turin,  and  Bo- 
logna, and  mighty  Rome  herself,  until  the  journey  was  ended 
and  distant  Naples  reached  at  last. 

But  Miss  St.  Quentin's  communings  with  nature  were  des- 
tined to  speedy  interruption.     Ludovic  Quayle's    elongated 


546  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

person,  clothed  to  the  heels  in  a  check  traveling-coat,  de- 
tached itself  from  the  company  of  waiting  passengers,  and 
blue-linen-clad  porters,  upon  the  central  platform  before  the 
main  block  of  station  buildings,  and  made  its  light  and  active 
way  across  the  intervening  lines  of  crimson-stained  metals. 

"  If  I  am  a  nuisance  mention  that  chastening  fact  without 
hesitation,"  he  said,  standing  on  the  railway  track  and  looking 
up  at  her  with  his  air  of  very  urbane  intelligence.  "  Present 
circumstances  permit  us  the  privilege — or  otherwise — of  lay- 
ing aside  restraints  of  speech,  along  with  other  small  proprie- 
ties of  behaviour  commonly  observed  by  the  polite.  So  don't 
spare  my  feelings,  dear  Miss  St.  Quentin.  If  I  am  a  bore, 
tell  me  so,  and  I  will  return,  and  that  without  any  lurking 
venom  in  my  breast,  whence  I  came." 

"  Do  anything  you  please,"  Honoria  replied,  "  except  be 
run  over  by  the  Paris  train." 

"  The  Paris  train,  so  I  have  just  learned,  is  an  hour  late, 
consequently  its  arrival  hardly  enters  into  the  question.  But, 
since  you  are  graciously  pleased  to  bid  me  do  as  I  like,  I  stay," 
Mr.  Quaylc  returned,  stepping  on  to  the  platform  and  turning 
to  pace  beside  her. — "What  a  gaol  delivery  it  is  to  get  into 
the  open!  That  last  engine  of  ours  threw  ashes  to  a  truly 
penitential  extent.  My  mouth  and  throat  still  claim  unpleas- 
antly close  relation  to  a  neglected,  kitchen  grate.  And  if  our 
much  vaunted  waggon-lits  is  the  last  word  of  civilisation  in 
connection  with  travel,  then  all  I  can  say  is  that,  in  my  hum- 
ble opinion,  civilisation  has  yet  a  most  exceedingly  long  way 
to  go.  It  really  is  a  miraculously  uncomfortable  vehicle. 
And  how  Lady  Calmady  contrives  to  endure  its  eccentricities 
of  climate  and  of  motion,  I'm  sure  I  don't  know." 

"  In  her  case  the  end  would  make  any  sort  of  means  sup- 
portable," Honoria  answered. 

Her  pacings  had  brought  her  to  the  extreme  end  of  the 
platform  where  it  sloped  to  the  level  of  the  track.  She  stood 
there  a  moment,  her  head  thrown  back,  snuffing  the  wind  as 
a  hind,  breaking  covert,  stands  and  snufFs  it.  A  spirit  of 
questioning  possessed  her,  though  not — as  in  the  hind's  case 
— of  things  concrete  and  material.  It  is  true  she  could  have 
dispensed  with  Mr.  Quayle's  society.  She  did  not  want  him. 
But  he  had  shown  himself  so  full  of  resource,  so  considerate 
and  helpful,  ever  since  the  news  of  Sir  Richard  Calmady's 


THE  NEW  HEAVEN  AND  NEW  EARTH  547 

desperate  state  had  broken  up  the  peace  of  the  little  party  at 
Ormiston  Castle,  now  five  days  ago,  that  she  forgave  him 
even  his  preciousness  of  speech,  even  his  slightly  irritating 
superiority  of  manner.  She  had  ceased  to  be  on  her  guard 
with  him  during  these  days  of  travel,  had  come  to  take  his 
presence  for  granted  and  to  treat  him  with  the  comfortable  in- 
difference of  honest  good-fellowship.  So,  it  followed  that 
now,  speaking  with  him,  she  continued  to  follow  out  her 
existing  train  of  thought. 

"  Tm  by  no  means  off  my  head  about  poor  Dickie  Cal^ 
mady,"  she  said  presently, — '^  specially  where  Cousin  Kath- 
erine  is  concerned.  I  couldn't  go  on  caring  about  anybody^ 
irrespective  of  their  conduct,  just  because  they  were  they*^ 
And  yet  I  can't  help  seeing  it  must  be  tremendously  satisfy- 
ing to  feel  like  that." 

"A  thousand  pardons,"  Ludovic  murmured,  "but  like 
what  ? " 

"Why  as  Cousin  Katherine  feels — ^just  whole-heartedly^ 
without  analysis,  and  without  alloy — to  feel  that  no  distance, 
no  fatigue,  no  nothing  in  short,  matters,  so  long  as  she  gets 
to  him  in  time,  I  don't  approve  of  such  a  state  of  mind,  and 
yet  "— Honoria  wheeled  round,  facing  the  glory  of  colour 
dyeing  all  the  west — "  and  yet,  I'm  untrue  enough  to  my  own 
principles  rather  to  envy  it." 

She  sighed,  and  that  sigh  her  companion  noted  and  filed  for 
reference.  Indeed,  an  unusually  expansive  cheerfulness  be- 
came perceptible  in  Mr.  Quayle. 

"  By  the  bye,  is  there  any  further  news  ?  "  she  inquired. 

"  General  Ormiston  has  just  had  a  telegram." 

"  Anything  fresh  ?  " 

"  Still  unconscious,  strength  fairly  maintained." 

"  Oh  !  we  know  that  by  heart  !  "  Honoria  said. 

"We  do.  And  we  know  the  consequences  of  it — the 
sweet  little  see-saw  of  hope  and  fear,  productive  of  unlimited 
discussion  and  anxiety.  No  weak  letting  one  stand  at  ease 
about  that  telegram !  It  keeps  one's  nose  hard  down  on  the 
grindstone." 

"If  he  dies,"  Honoria  said  slowly,  "if  he  dies — poor,  dear 
Cousin  Katherine  ! — When  can  we  hear  again  ?  " 

"  At  Turin,"  Mr.  Quayle  replied. 

Then  they  both  fell  silent  until  the  far  end  of  the  platform 


548  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

was  reached.  And  there,  once  more,  Honoria  paused,  her 
small  head  carried  high,  her  serious  eyes  fixed  upon  the  sun- 
set. The  rosy  light  falling  upon  her  failed  to  disguise  the 
paleness  of  her  face  or  its  slight  angularity  of  line.  She  was 
a  little  worn  and  travel-stained,  a  little  disheveled  even.  Yet 
to  her  companion  she  had  rarely  appeared  more  charming. 
She  might  be  tired,  she  might  even  be  somewhat  untidy,  but 
her  innate  distinction  remained — nay,  gained,  so  he  judged,  by 
suggestion  of  rough  usage  endured.  Her  absolute  absence  of 
affectation,  her  unself-consciousness,  her  indifference  to  ad- 
ventitious prettinesses  of  toilet,  her  transparent  sincerity,  were 
very  entirely  approved  by  Ludovic  Quayle. 

"  Yes,  that  see-saw  of  hope  and  fear  must  be  an  awful 
ordeal,  feeling  as  she  does,"  Miss  St.  Quentin  said  presently. 
*^  And  yet,  even  so,  I  am  uncertain.  1  can't  help  wondering 
which  really  is  best !  " 

"Again  a  thousand  pardons,"  the  young  man  put  in,  "  but 
I  venture  to  remind  you  that  I  was  not  cradled  in  the  fore- 
court of  the  temple  of  the  Pythian  Apollo,  but  only  in  the 
nursery  of  a  conspicuously  Philistine,  English  country-house." 

For  the  first  time  during  their  conversation  Honoria  looked 
full  at  him.  Her  glance  was  very  friendly,  yet  it  remained 
meditative,  even  a  trifle  sad. 

Oh  !    I    know,    I'm    fearfully    inconsequent,"    she    said. 

But  my  head  is  simply  rattled  to  pieces  by  that  beastly 
ftvaggon-lit.  I  had  gone  back  to  what  I  was  thinking  about 
before  you  joined  me,  and  to  what  we  were  saying  just  now 
about  Cousin  Katherine." 

"  Yes — yes,  exactly,"  Ludovic  put  in  tentatively.  She  was 
going  to  give  herself  away — he  was  sure  of  it.  And  such 
giving  away  might  make  for  opportunity.  In  spirit,  the 
young  man  proceeded  to  take  his  shoes  from  off  his  feet.  The 
ground  on  which  he  stood  might  prove  to  be  holy.  More- 
over Miss  St.  Quentin's  direct  acts  of  self-revelation  were 
few  and  far  between.  He  was  horribly  afraid  those  same 
shoes  of  his  might  creak,  so  to  speak,  thereby  startling  her 
into  watchfulness,  making  her  draw  back.  But  Honoria  did 
not  draw  back.  She  was  too  much  absorbed  by  her  own 
thought.  She  continued  to  contemplate  the  glory  of  the  flam- 
ing west,  her  expression  touched  by  a  grave  and  noble 
enthusiasm. 


THE  NEW  HEAVEN  AND  NEW  EARTH    549 

*'  I  suppose  one  can't  help  worrying  a  little  at  times — it's 
laid  hold  of  me  very  much  during  the  last  month  or  two — as- 
to  what  is  really  the  finest  way  to  take  life.  One  wants  to 
arrive  at  that  fairly  early  *,  not  by  a  process  of  involuntary^ 
elimination,  on  the  burnt-child-fears-the-fire  sort  of  principle, 
when  the  show's  more  than  half  over,  as  so  many  people  do. 
One  wants  to  get  hold  of  the  stick  by  the  right  end  now^ 
while  one's  still  comparatively  young,  and  then  work  straight 
along.  I  want  my  reason  to  be  the  backbone  of  my  action, 
don't  you  know,  instead  of  merely  the  push  of  society  and. 
friendship,  and  superficial  odds  and  ends  of  so-called  obliga- 
tion to  other  people." 

"  Yes,"  Mr.  Quayle  put  in  again. 

"  Now,  it  seems  to  me,  that " — Honoria  extended  one 
hand  towards  the  sunset — "  is  Cousin  Katherine's  outlook  on 
life  and  humanity,  full  of  colour,  full  of  warmth.  It  burns, 
with  a  certain  prodigality  of  beauty,  a  superb  absence  of 
economy  in  giving.  And  that  " — with  a  little  shrug  of  her 
shoulders  she  turned  towards  the  severe,  and  sombre,  easterrt 
landscape — "  that,  it  strikes  me,  comes  a  good  deal  nearer  my 
own.     Which  is  best  ?  " 

Mr.  Quayle  congratulated  himself  upon  the  removal  of  his 
shoes.  The  ground  was  holy — holy  to  the  point  of  em- 
barrassment even  to  so  unabashable  and  ready-tongued  a 
gentleman  as  himself.  He  answered  with  an  unusual  degree 
of  diffidence. 

"  An  intermediate  position  is  neither  wholly  inconceivable 
nor  wholly  untenable,  perhaps." 

"And  you  occupy  it  ?  Yes,  you  are  very  neatly  balanced. 
But  then,  do  you  really  get  anywhere  .?  " 

"  Is  not  that  a  rather  knavish  speech,  dear  Miss  St. 
Quentin  ?  "  the  young  man  inquired  mildly, 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  answered,  "  I  wish  to  goodness  I 
did." 

Now  was  here  god-given  opportunity,  or  merely  a  cunningly 
devised  snare  for  the  taking  of  the  unwary  ?  Ludovic  pon- 
dered the  matter.  He  gently  kicked  a  little  pebble  from  the 
dingy  gray-drab  of  the  asphalt  on  to  the  permanent  way.  It 
struck  one  of  the  metals  with  a  sharp  click.  A  blue-linen-clad 
porter,  short  of  stature  and  heavy  of  build,  lighted  the  gas 
lamps  along   the   platform.     The  flame  of  these  wavered  at 


550  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

first,  and  flickered,  showing  thin  and  will-o'-the-wisp-like 
against  the  great  outspread  of  darkening  country  across  which 
the  wind  came  with  a  certain  effect  of  harshness  and  barren- 
ness— the  inevitable  concomitant  of  its  inherent  purity.  And 
the  said  wind  treated  Miss  St.  Quentin  somewhat  discourte- 
ously, buffeting  her,  obliging  her  to  put  up  both  hands  to  push 
back  stray  locks  of  hair.  Also  the  keen  breath  of  it  pierced 
her,  making  her  shiver  a  little.  Both  of  which  things  her 
companion  noting,  took  heart  of  grace. 

"  Is  It  permitted  to  renew  a  certain  petition  ?  "  he  asked,  in 
a  low  voice. 

Honoria  shook  her  head. 

"  Better  not,  I  think,"  she  said. 

"And  yet,  dear  Miss  St.  Quentin,  pulverised  though  I  am 
by  the  weight  of  my  own  unworthiness,  I  protest  that  petition 
is  not  wholly  foreign  to  the  question  you  did  me  the  honour 
to  ask  me  just  now." 

"  Oh  !  dear  me  !  You  always  contrive  to  bring  it  round  to 
that !  *'  she  exclaimed,  not  without  a  hint  of  petulance. 

"  Far  from  it,"  the  young  man  returned.  "  For  a  good, 
solia  eighteen  months,  now,  I  have  displayed  the  accumulated 
patience  of  innumerable  asses." 

"Of  course,  I  see  what  you're  driving  at,"  she  continued 
hastily.  "  But  it  is  not  original.  It's  just  every  man's  stock 
argument." 

"  If  it  bears  the  hall-mark  of  hoary  antiquity,  so  much  the 
better.  I  entertain  a  reverence  for  precedent.  And  honestly, 
as  common  sense  goes,  I  am  not  ashamed  of  that  of  my  sex." 

Miss  St.  Quentin  resumed  her  walk. 

"  You  really  think  it  stands  in  one's  way,"  she  said  reflec- 
tively, "  you  really  think  it  a  disadvantage,  to  be  a  woman  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  good  Lord  !  "  Mr.  Quayle  ejaculated,  softly  yet 
with  an  air  so  humorously  aghast  that  it  could  leave  no  doubt  as 
to  the  nature  of  his  sentiments.  Then  he  cursed  himself  for 
a  fool.  His  shoes  indeed  had  made  a  mighty  creaking!  He 
expected  an  explosion  of  scornful  wrath.  He  admitted  he 
deserved  it.     It  did  not  come. 

Miss  St.  Quentin  looked  at  him,  for  a  moment,  almost 
:piteously.  He  fancied  her  mouth  quivered  and  that  her  eyes 
•filled  with  tears.  Then  she  turned  and  swung  away  with  her 
Jong,  easy,  even  stride.     Mentally  the  young  man  took  him- 


THE  NEW  HEAVEN  AND  NEW  EARTH    551 

self  by  the  throat,  conscience-stricken  at  'having  humiliated 
her,  at  having  caused  her  to  fall,  even  momentarily,  from  the 
height  of  her  serene,  maidenly  dignity.  For  once  he  became 
absolutely  uncritical,  careless  of  appearances.  He  fairly  ran 
after  her  along  the  platform. 

"  Dear  Miss  St.  Quentin,"  he  called  to  her,  in  tones  of 
most  persuasive  apology. 

But  Honoria's  moment  of  piteousness  was  past.  She  had 
recovered  all  her  habitual  lazy  and  gallant  grace  when  he 
came  up  with  her. 

"  No — no,"  she  said.  *'  Hear  me.  I  began  this  rather 
foolish  conversation.  I  laid  myself  open  to — well  to  a  snub- 
bing.    I  got  one,  anyhow  !  " 

''  In  mercy  don't  rub  it  in  !  '*  Mr.  Quayle  murmured  con- 
tritely. 

"  But  I  did,"  Honoria  returned.  "  Now  it's  over  and  Fm 
going  to  pick  up  the  pieces  and  put  them  back  in  their  places 
— jun  where  they  were  before." 

"  But  I  protest ! — I  hailed  a  new  combination.  I  discover 
in  myself  no  wild  anxiety  to  have  the  pieces  put  back  just 
where  they  were  before." 

*'  Oh  !  yes,  you  do,"  Honoria  declared.  "  At  least,  you 
certainly  will  when  I  explain  it  to  you." — She  paused. — "  You 
see,"  she  said,  "  it  is  like  this.  Living  with  and  watching 
Cousin  Katherine,  I  have  come  to  know  all  that  side  of  things 
at  its  very  finest." 

"  Forgive  me. — It  ?  What .?  May  I  recall  to  you  the  fact 
of  the  Philistine  nursery  ?  " 

The  young  lady's  delicate  face  straightened. 

"  You  know  perfectly  well  what  I  mean,"  she  said. — "  That 
which  we  all  think  about  so  constantly,  and  yet  affect  to  speak 
of  as  a  joke  or  a  slight  impropriety — love,  marriage,  mother- 
hood." 

"  Yes,  Lady  Calmady  is  a  past-master  in  those  arts,"  Mr.. 
Quayle  replied. — Again  the  ground  was  holy.  He  was  con- 
scious his  pulse  quickened. 

"  The  beauty  of  it  all,  as  one  sees  it  in  her  case,  breaks 
one  up  a  little.  There  is  no  laugh  left  in  one  about  those 
things.  One  sees  that  to  her  they  are  of  the  nature  of  rc' 
Jigion — a  religion  pure  and  undefiled,  a  new  way  of  knowing 
God  and  of   bringing  oneself  into  line   with  the    truth  as  it 


552  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

is  in  Him.  But,  having  once  seen  that,  one  can  decline  upon 
no  lower  level.  One  grows  ambitious.  One  will  have  it 
that  way  or  not  at  all." 

Honoria  paused  again.  The  bleak  wind  buffeted  her.  But 
she  was  no  longer  troubled  or  chilled  by  it,  rather  did  it  brace 
her  to  greater  fearlessness  of  resolve  and  of  speech. 

"  You  are  contemptuous  of  women,"  she  said. 

"I  have  betrayed  characteristics  of  the  ass,  other  than  its 
patience,"  Ludovic  lamented. 

"  Oh  !  I  didn't  mean  that,"  Honoria  returned,  smiling  in 
friendliest  fashion  upon  him.  '^  Every  man  worth  the  name 
really  feels  as  you  do,  I  imagine.  I  don't  blame  you.  Possibly 
I  am  growing  a  trifle  shaky  as  to  feminine  superiority,  and 
woman  spelled  with  a  capital  letter,  myself.  I'm  awfully 
afraid  she  is  safest — for  herself  and  others — under  slight  re- 
straint, in  a  state  of  mild  subjection.  She's  not  quite  to  be 
trusted,  either  intellectually  or  emotionally — at  least,  the  ma- 
jority of  her  isn't.  If  she  got  her  head,  I've  a  dreadful 
suspicion  she  would  make  a  worse  hash  of  creation  generally 
than  you  men  have  made  of  it  already,  and  that" — Honoria's 
eyes  narrowed,  her  upper  lip  shortened,  and  her  smile  shone  out 
again  delightfully — "  that's  saying  a  very  great  deal,  you  know." 

"  My  spirits  rise  to  giddy  heights,"  Mr.  Quayle  exclaimed. 
*^  I  endorse  those  sentiments.  But  whence,  oh,  dear  lady,  this 
change  of  front  ?  " 

"  Wait  a  minute.  We've  not  got  to  the  end  of  my  con- 
tention yet." 

"The  Paris  train  is  late.  There  is  time.  And  this  is  all 
excellent  hearing." 

"  I'm  not  quite  so  sure  of  that,"  Honoria  said.  "  For,  you 
see,  just  in  proportion  as  I  give  up  the  fiction  of  her  superiority, 
and  admit  that  woman  already  has  her  political,  domestic,  and 
social  deserts,  I  feel  a  chivalry  towards  her,  poor,  dear  thing, 
which  I  never  felt  before.  I  even  feel  a  chivalry  towards  the 
woman  in  myself.  She  claims  my  pity  and  my  care  in  a  quite 
new  way." 

"  So  much  the  better,"  Mr.  Quayle  observed,  outwardly 
discreetly  urbane,  inwardly  almost  riotously  jubilant. 

"Ah!  wait  a  minute,"  she  repeated.  Her  tone  changed^ 
sobered.  "  I  don't  want  to  spread  myself,  but  you  know  I  can 
meet  men  pretty  well  on  their  own  ground.     I  could  shoot  and 


THE  NEW  HEAVEN  AND  NEW  EARTH    553 

fish  as  well  as  most  of  you,  only  that  I  don't  think  it  right  to 
take  life  except  to  provide  food,  or  in  self-defense.  There's  not 
so  much  happiness  going  that  one's  justified  in  cutting  any  of 
it  short.  Even  a  jack-snipe  may  have  his  little  affairs  of  the 
heart,  and  a  cock-S2.iimon  his  gamble.  But  I  can  ride  as  straight 
as  you  can.  I  can  break  any  horse  to  harness  you  choose  to 
put  me  behind.  I  can  sail  a  boat  and  handle  an  axe.  I  can 
turn  my  hand  to  most  practical  things — except  a  needle.  I  ovi^n 
I  always  have  hated  a  needle  worse — well,  worse  than  the 
devil !  And  I  can  organise,  and  can  speak  fairly  well,  and 
manage  business  affairs  tidily.  And  have  I  not  even  been 
known — low  be  it  spoken — to  beat  you  at  lawn  tennis,  and 
Lord  Shotover  at  billiards  ?  " 

"And  to  overthrow  my  most  Socratic  father  in  argument. 
And  outwit  my  sister  Louisa  in  diplomacy — vide  our  poor,  dear 
Dickie  Calmady's  broken  engagement,  and  the  excellent, 
scatter-brain  Decies'  marriage." 

"But  Lady  Constance  is  happy?  "  Honoria  put  in  hastily. 

"  Blissful,  positively  blissful,  and  with  twins  too !  Think 
of  it ! — Decies  is  blissful  also.  His  sense  of  humour  has 
deteriorated  since  his  marriage,  from  constant  association 
with  good,  little  Connie  who  was  never  distinguished  for  ready 
perception  of  a  joke.  He  regards  those  small,  simultaneous 
replicas  of  himself  with  unqualified  complacency,  which 
shows  his  appreciation  of  comedy  must  be  a  bit  blunted." 

"  I   wonder  if  it    does  ?  "  Miss    St.  Quentin  observed  re- 
flectively.    Whereat  Mr.  Quayle  permitted  himself  a  sound 
as  nearly  approaching  a  chuckle  as  was  possible  to  so  superia 
a  person. 

"A  thousand  pardons,"  he  murmured,  "but  really,  dear 
lady,  you  are  so  very  much  off  on  the  other  tack." 

"Am  I  ?  "  Miss  St.  Quentin  said.  "  Well,  you  see — to  go 
back  to  my  demonstration — I've  none  of  the  quarrel  with  your 
side  of  things  most  women  have,  because  I'm  not  shut  out 
from  it,  and  so  I  don't  envy  you.  I  can  amuse  and  interest 
myself  on  your  lines.  And  therefore  I  can  afford  to  be  very 
considerate  and  tender  of  the  woman  in  me.  I  grow  more 
and  more  resolved  that  she  shall  have  the  very  finest  going,  or 
that  she  shall  have  nothing,  in  respect  of  all  which  belongs  to 
her  special  province — in  regard  to  love  and  marriage.  In  them 
she  shall  have  what  Cousin  Katherinc  has  had,  and  find  what 


554  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

Cousin  Katherine  has  found,  or  all  that  shall  be  a  shut  book 
to  her  forever.  Even  if  discipline  and  denial  make  her  a 
little  unhappy,  poor  thing,  that's  far  better  than  letting  her  de- 
cline upon  the  second  best." 

Honoria's  voice  was  full  and  sweet.  She  spoke  from  out 
the  deep  places  of  her  thought.  Her  whole  aspect  was  in- 
stinct with  a  calm  and  seasoned  enthusiasm.  And,  looking 
upon  her,  it  became  Ludovic  Quayle's  turn  to  find  the  even- 
ing wind  somewhat  bleak  and  barren.  It  struck  chill,  and  he 
turned  away  and  moved  westwards  towards  the  sunset.  But 
the  rose-crimson  splendours  had  become  faint  and  frail,  while 
the  indigo  cloud  had  gathered  into  long,  horizontal  lines  as  of 
dusky  smoke,  so  that  the  remaining  brightness  was  seen  as 
through  prison  bars.  A  sadness,  indeed,  seemed  to  hold  the 
west,  even  greater  than  that  which  held  the  east,  since  it  was 
a  sadness  not  of  beauty  unborn,  but  of  beauty  dead.  And 
this  struck  home  to  the  young  man.  He  did  not  care  to 
speak.  Miss  St.  Quentin  walked  beside  him  in  silence,  for  a 
time.     When  at  last  she  spoke  it  was  very  gently. 

"  Please  don't  be  angry  with  me,"  she  pleaded.  "  I  like 
you  so  much  that — that  I'd  give  a  great  deal  to  be  able  to 
think  less  of  my  duty  to  the  tiresome  woman  in  me." 

"  I  would  give  a  great  deal  too,"  he  declared,  regardless  of 
grammar. 

"  But  I'm  not  the  only  woman  in  the  world,  dear  Mr. 
Quayle,"  she  protested  presently. 

"  But  I,  unfortunately,  have  no  use  for  any  other,"  he  re- 
turned. 

'''  Ah,  you  distress  me  !  "  Honoria  cried. 

"  Well,  I  don't  know  that  you  make  me  superabundantly 
cheerful,"  he  answered. 

Just  then  the  far-away  shriek  of  a  locomotive  and  dull 
thunder  of  an  approaching  train  was  heard.  Mr.  Quayle 
looked  once  more  towards  the  western  horizon. 

"  Here's  the  Paris-express  !  "  he  said.  "  We  must  be  off 
if  we  mean  to  get  round  before  our  horse-box  is  shunted." 

He  jumped  down  on  to  the  permanent  way.  Miss  St. 
Quentin  followed  him,  and  the  two  ran  helter-skelter  across 
the  many  lines  of  metals,  in  the  direction  of  the  Culoz- 
Geneva-Bale  siding.  That  somewhat  childish  and  undignified 
proceeding  ministered  to  the  restoration  of  good  fellowship. 


THE  NEW  HEAVEN  AND  NEW  EARTH    555 

'^  Great  passions  are  rare,"  Mr.  Quayle  said,  laughing  a 
little.  His  circulation  was  agreeably  quickened.  How  sur- 
prisingly fast  this  nymph-like  creature  could  get  over  the 
ground,  and  that  gracefully,  moreover,  rather  in  the  style  of  a 
lissome,  long-limbed  youth  than  in  that  of  a  woman. 

"  Rare  ?  I  know  it,"  she  answered,  the  words  coming  short 
and  sharply.  "  But  I  accept  the  risk.  A  thousand  to  one 
the  book  remains  shut  forever." 

"And  I,  meanwhile,  am  not  too  proud  to  pass  the  time  of 
day  with  the  second  best,  and  take  refuge  in  the  accumulated 
patience  of  innumerable  asses." 

And,  behind  them,  the  express  train  thundered  into  the 
station. 


CHAPTER  II 

TELLING  HOW,  ONCE  AGAIN,  KATHERINE  CALMADY  LOOKED  ON 

HER   SON 

I  ^HE  bulletin  received  at  Turin  was  sufficiently  disquieting. 
Richard  had  had  a  relapse.  And  when  at  Bologna,  just 
as  the  train  was  starting.  General  Ormiston  entered  the  com- 
partment occupied  by  the  two  ladies,  there  was  that  in  his 
manner  which  made  Miss  St.  Quentin  lay  aside  the  magazine 
she  was  reading  and,  rising  silently  from  her  place  opposite 
Lady  Calmady,  go  out  on  to  the  narrow  passageway  of  the 
long  sleeping-car.  She  was  very  close  to  the  elder  woman  in 
the  bonds  of  a  dear  and  intimate  friendship,  yet  hardly  close 
enough,  so  she  judged,  to  intrude  her  presence  if  evil-tidings 
were  to  be  told.  A  man  going  into  battle  might  look,  so  she 
thought,  as  Roger  Ormiston  looked  now — very  stern  and 
strained.  It  was  more  fitting  to  leave  the  brother  and  sister 
alone  together  for  a  little  space. 

At  the  far  end  of  the  passageway  the  servants  were 
grouped — Clara,  comely  of  face  and  of  person,  neat  notwith- 
standing the  demoralisation  of  feminine  attire  incident  to  pro- 
longed travel.  Winter,  the  Brockhurst  butler,  clean-shaven, 
gray-headed,  suggestive  of  a  distinguished  Anglican  ecclesias- 
tic  in  mufti.     Miss  St.  Quentin's  lady's-maid,  Faulstich  by 


556  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

name,  a  North-Country  woman,  angular  of  person  and  of 
bearing,  loyal  of  heart.  And  Zimmermann,  the  colossal  Ger- 
man-Swiss courier,  with  his  square,  yellow  beard  and  hair  en 
brosse.  An  air  of  discouragement  pervaded  the  party,  involv- 
ing even  the  polyglot  conductor  of  the  waggon-lits^  a  small, 
quick,  sandy-complexloned,  young  fellow  of  uncertain  nation- 
ality, with  a  gold  band  round  his  peaked  cap.  He  respected 
this  family  which  could  afford  to  take  a  private  railway-car- 
riage half  across  Europe.  He  shared  their  anxieties.  And 
these  were  evidently  great.  Clara  wept.  The  old  butler's 
mouth  twitched,  and  his  slightly  pendulous  cheeks  quivered. 
The  door  at  the  extreme  end  of  the  car  was  set  wide  open. 
Ludovic  Quayle  stood  upon  the  little,  iron  balcony  smoking. 
His  feet  were  planted  far  apart,  yet  his  tall  figure  swayed  and 
curtseyed  queerly  as  the  heavy  carriage  bumped  and  rattled 
across  the  points.  High  walls,  overtopped  by  the  dark  spires 
of  cypresses,  overhung  by  radiant  wealth  of  lilac  Wisteria, 
and  of  roses  red,  yellow,  and  white,  reeled  away  in  the  keen 
sunshine  to  the  left  and  right.  Then,  clearing  the  outskirts 
of  the  town,  the  train  roared  southward  across  the  fair,  Italian 
landscape  beneath  the  pellucid,  blue  vault  of  the  fair,  Italian 
sky.  And  to  Honoria  there  was  something  of  heartlessness 
in  all  that  fair  outward  prospect.  Here,  in  Italy,  the  ancient 
gods  reigned  still,  surely,  the  gods  who  are  careless  of  human 
woe. 

"  Is  there  bad  news.  Winter  ? "  she  asked. 

"  Mr.  Bates  telegraphs  to  the  General  that  it  would  be  well 
her  ladyship  should  be  prepared  for  the  worst." 

"  It'll  kill  my  lady.  For  certain  sure  it  will  kill  her !  She 
never  could  be  expected  to  stand  up  against  that.  And  just 
as  she  was  getting  round  from  her  own  illness  so  nicely 
too " 

Audibly  Clara  wept.  Her  tears  so  affected  the  sandy-com- 
plexioned,  polyglot  conductor  that  he  retired  into  his  little 
pantry  and  made  a  most  unholy  clattering  among  the  plates 
and  knives  and  forks.  Honoria  put  her  hand  upon  the  sob- 
bing woman's  shoulder  and  drev/  her  into  the  comparative 
privacy  of  the  adjoining  compartment,  rendered  not  a  little 
inaccessible  by  a  multiplicity  of  rugs,  traveling-bags,  and  hand- 
luggage. 

"  Come,  sit  down,  Clara,"  she  said.     "  Have  your  cry  out. 


THE  NEW  HEAVEN  AND  NEW  EARTH    557 

And  then  pull  yourself  together.  Remember  Lady  Calmady 
will  want  just  all  you  can  do  for  her  if  Sir  Richard — if — and 
Honoria  was  aware  somehow  of  a  sharp  catch  in  her  throat — 
"if  he  does  not  live." 

And,  meanwhile,  Roger  Ormiston,  now  in  sober  and  digni- 
fied middle-age,  found  himself  called  upon  to  repeat  that 
rather  sinister  experience  of  his  hot  and  rackety  youth,  and, 
as  he  put  it  bitterly,  "  act  hangman  to  his  own  sister."  For, 
as  he  approached  her,  Katherine,  leaning  back  against  the 
piled-up  cushions  in  the  corner  of  the  railway  carriage,  sud- 
denly sat  bolt-upright,  stretching  out  her  hands  in  swift  fear 
and  entreaty,  as  in  the  state  bedroom  at  Brockhurst  nine-and- 
twenty  years  ago. 

"  Oh,  Roger,  Roger  !  "  she  cried,  "  tell  me,  what  is  it  ?  " 

"  Nothing  final  as  yet,  thank  God,"  he  answered.  "  But  it 
would  be  cruel  to  keep  the  truth  from  you,  Kitty,  and  let  you 
buoy  yourself  up  with  false  hopes." 

"  pie  is  worse,"  Katherine  said. 

"  Yes,  he  is  worse.  He  is  a  good  deal  weaker.  Pm  afraid 
the  state  of  affairs  has  become  very  grave.  Evidently  they 
are  apprehensive  as  to  what  turn  the  fever  may  take  in  the 
course  of  the  next  twelve  hours." 

Katherine  bowed  herself  together  as  though  smitten  by 
sharp  pain.  Then  she  looked  at  him  hurriedly,  fresh  alarms 
assaulting  her. 

"  You  are  not  trying  to  soften  the  blow  to  me  ?  You  are 
not  keeping  anything  back  ?  " 

"  No,  no,  no,  my  dear  Kitty.  There — see — read  it  for 
yourself.  I  telegraphed  twice,  so  as  to  have  the  latest  news. 
Here's  the  last  reply." 

Ormiston  unfolded  the  blue  paper,  crossed  by  white  strips 
of  printed  matter,  and  laid  it  upon  her  lap.  And  as  he  did  so 
it  struck  him,  aggravating  his  sense  of  sinister  repetition,  that 
she  had  on  the  same  rings  and  bracelets  as  on  that  former  oc- 
casion, and  that  she  wore  stone-gray  silk  too — a  long  travel- 
ing sacque,  lined  and  bordered  with  soft  fur.  It  rustled  as 
she  moved.  A  coif  of  black  lace  covered  her  upturned  hair, 
framed  her  sweet  face,  and  was  tied  soberly  under  her  chin. 
And,  looking  upon  her,  Ormiston  yearned  in  spirit  over  this 
beautiful  woman  who  had  borne  such  grievous  sorrows,  and 
who,  as  he  feared,  had  sorrow  yet  more  grievous  still  to  bear. 


558  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

— "  For  ten  to  one  the  boy  won't  pull  through — he  won't  pull 
through/*  he  said  to  himself.  "  Poor,  dear  fellow,  he's  noth- 
ing left  to  fall  back  upon.  He's  lived  too  hard."  And  then 
he  took  himself  remorsefully  to  task,  asking  himself  whether, 
among  the  pleasures  and  ambitions  and  successes  of  his  own 
career,  he  had  been  quite  faithful  to  the  dead,  and  quite  watch- 
ful enough  over  the  now  dying,  Richard  Calmady  ?  He  re- 
proached himself,  for,  when  Death  stands  at  the  gate,  con- 
science grows  very  sensitive  regarding  any  lapses,  real  or 
imagined,  of  duty  towards  those  for  whom  that  dread  ambas- 
sador waits. 

Twice  Katherine  read  the  telegram,  weighing  each  word  of 
it.     Then  she  gave  the  blue  paper  back  to  her  brother. 

"  I  will  ask  you  all  to  let  me  be  alone  for  a  little  while, 
dear  Roger,"  she  said.  "  Tell  Honoria,  tell  Ludovic,  tell  my 
good  Clara.  I  must  turn  my  face  to  the  wall  for  a  time,  so 
that,  when  I  turn  it  upon  you  dear  people  again,  it  may  not 
be  too  unlovely." 

And  Ormiston  bent  his  head  and  kissed  her  hand,  and  went 
out,  closing  the  door  behind  him — while  the  train  roared  south- 
ward, through  the  afternoon  sunshine,  southward  towards 
Chiusi  and  Rome. 

And  Katherine  Calmady  sat  quietly  amid  the  noise  and 
violent,  on-rushing  movement,  making  up  accounts  with  her 
own  motherhood.  That  she  might  never  see  Dickie  again, 
she  herself  dying,  was  an  idea  which  had  grown  not  unfamil- 
iar to  her  during  these  last  sad  years.  But  that  she  should 
survive,  only  to  see  Dickie  dead,  was  a  new  idea  and  one 
which  joined  hands  with  despair,  since  it  constituted  a  con- 
clusion big  with  the  anguish  of  failure  to  the  tragedy  of  their 
relation,  hers  and  his.  Her  whole  sense  of  justice,  of  fitness, 
rebelled  under  it,  rebelled  against  it.  She  implored  a  space, 
however  brief,  of  reconciliation  and  reunion  before  the  su- 
preme farewell  was  said.  But  it  had  become  natural  to 
Katherine's  mind,  so  unsparingly  self-trained  in  humble  obe- 
dience to  the  divine  ordering,  not  to  stay  in  the  destructive, 
but  pass  on  to  the  constructive  stage.  She  would  not  indulge 
herself  in  rebellion,  but  rather  fashion  her  thought  without 
delay  to  that  which  should  make  for  inward  peace.  And  so 
now,  turnmg  her  eyes,  in  thought,  from  the  present,  she  went 
back  on  the  baby-love*  the  child-love  which,  notwithstanding 


THE  NEW  HEAVEN  AND  NEW  EARTH    559 

the  abiding  smart  of  Richard's  deformity,  had  been  so  very 
exquisite  to  her.  Upon  the  happier  side  of  all  that  she  had 
not  dared  to  dwell  during  this  prolonged  period  of  estrange- 
ment. It  was  too  poignant,  too  deep-seated  in  the  springs  of 
her  physical  being.  To  dwell  on  it  enervated  and  unnerved 
her.  But  now,  Richard  the  grown  man  dying,  she  gave  her- 
self back  to  Richard  the  little  child.  It  solaced  her  to  do  so. 
Then  he  had  been  wholly  hers.  And  he  was  wholly  hers  still, 
in  respect  of  that  early  time.  The  man  she  had  lost — so  it 
seemed,  how  far  through  fault  of  her  own  she  could  not  tell. 
And  just  now  she  refused  to  analyse  all  that.  Upon  all  which 
strengthened  endurance,  upon  gracious  memories  engendering 
thankfulness,  could  her  mind  alone  profitably  be  fixed.  And 
so,  as  the  train  roared  southward,  and  the  sun  declined  and  the 
swift  dusk  spread  its  mantle  over  the  face  of  the  classic  land- 
scape, Katherine  cradled  a  phantom  baby  on  her  knee,  and  sat 
in  the  oriel  window  of  the  Chapel-Room,  at  Brockhurst,  with 
the  phantom  of  her  boy  beside  her,  while  she  told  him  old- 
time  legends  of  war,  and  of  high  endeavour,  and  of  gallant 
adventure,  watching  the  light  dance  in  his  eyes  as  her  words 
awoke  in  him  emulation  of  those  masters  of  noble  deeds 
whose  exploits  she  recounted.  And  in  this  she  found  com- 
fort, and  a  chastened  calm.  So  that,  when  at  length  General 
Ormiston — incited  thereto  by  the  faithful  Clara,  who  protested 
that  her  ladyship  must  and  should  dine — returned  to  her,  he 
found  her  storm-tossed  no  longer,  but  tranquil  in  expression 
and  solicitous  for  the  comfort  of  others.  She  had  conquered 
nature  by  grace — conquered,  in  that  she  had  compelled  her- 
self to  unqualified  submission.  If  this  cup  might  not  pass 
from  her,  still  would  she  praise  Almighty  God  and  bless  His 
Holy  Name,  asking  not  that  her  own,  but  His  will,  be  done. 

It  followed  that  the  evening,  spent  in  that  strangely  noisy, 
oscillating,  onward-rushing  dwelling-place  of  a  railway-car- 
riage, was  not  without  a  certain  subdued  brightness  of  inter- 
course and  conversation.  Katherine  was  neither  preoccupied 
nor  distrait,  or  unamused  even  by  the  small  accidents  and  ab- 
surdities of  travel.  Later,  while  preparations  were  being 
made  by  the  servants  for  the  coming  night,  she  went  out, 
with  the  two  gentlemen  and  Honoria  St.  Quentin,  on  to  the 
iron  platform  at  the  rear  of  the  swaying  car,  and  stood  there 
under  the  stars.     The  mystery  of  these  last,  and  of  the  dimly 


56o  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

discerned  and  sleeping  land,  offered  penetrating  contrast  to  the 
sleeplessness  of  the  hurrying  train  with  its  long,  sinuous  line 
of  lighted  windows,  and  to  the  sleeplessness  of  her  own  heart. 
The  fret  of  human  life  is  but  as  a  little  island  in  the  great 
ocean  of  eternal  peace — so  she  told  herself — and  then  bade 
that  sleepless  heart  of  hers  both  still  its  passionate  beating  and 
take  courage.  And  when,  at  length,  she  was  alone,  and  lay 
down  in  her  narrow  berth,  peace  and  thankfulness  remained 
with  Katherine.  The  care  and  affection  of  brother,  friends, 
and  servants,  was  very  grateful  to  her,  so  that  she  composed 
herself  to  rest,  whether  slumber  was  granted  her  or  not. 
The  event  was  in  the  hands  of  God — that  surely  was  enough. 

And  in  the  dawn,  reaching  Rome,  the  news  was  so  far  bet- 
ter that  it  was  not  worse.  Richard  lived.  And  when,  some 
seven  hours  later,  the  train  steamed  into  Naples  station,  and 
Bates,  the  house-steward — the  marks  of  haste  and  keen  anx- 
iety upon  him — pushed  his  way  up  to  the  carriage  door,  he 
could  report  there  was  this  amount  of  hope  even  yet,  that 
Richard  still  lived,  though  his  strength  was  as  that  of  an  infant 
and  whether  it  would  wax  or  wane  wholly  none  as  yet  could 
say. 

"  Then  we  are  in  time.  Bates  ?  "  Lady  Calmady  had  asked, 
desiring  further  assurance. 

"  I  hope  so,  my  lady.  But  I  would  advise  your  coming  as 
quickly  as  possible." 

^'  Is  he  conscious  ?  " 

"  He  knew  Captain  Vanstone  this  morning,  my  lady,  just 
before  I  left." 

The  man-servant  shouldered  the  crowd  aside  unceremo- 
niously, so  as  to  force  a  passage  for  Lady  Calmady. 

"  Her  ladyship  should  go  up  to  the  villa  at  once,  sir,"  he 
said  to  General  Ormiston.  "  I  had  better  accompany  her.  I 
will  leave  Andrews  to  make  all  arrangements  here.  The  car- 
riage is  waiting." 

Then,  Honoria  beside  her,  Katherine  was  aware  of  the  hot 
glare  and  hard  shadow,  the  grind  and  clatter,  the  violent 
colour,  the  strident  vivacity  of  the  Neapolitan  streets,  as  with 
voice  and  whip,  Garcia  sprung  the  handsome,  long-tailed, 
black  horses  up  the  steep  ascent.  This,  followed  by  the  im- 
pression of  a  cool,  spacious,  and  lofty  interior,  of  mild-dif- 
fused light,  of  pale,  marble  floors  and  stairways,  of  rich  hang- 


THE  NEW  HEAVEN  AND  NEW  EARTH    561 

ings  and  distinguished  objects  of  art,  of  the  soft,  green  gloom 
of  ilex  and  myrtle,  the  languid  drip  of  fountains.  And  this 
last  served  to  mark,  as  with  raised  finger,  the  hush, — bland, 
yet  very  imperative — which  held  all  the  place.  After  the  cease- 
less jar  and  tumult  of  that  many-days'  journey,  here,  up  at  the 
villa,  it  seemed  as  though  urgency  were  absurd,  hot  haste  of 
affection  a  little  vulgar,  a  little  contemptible,  all  was  so  com- 
posed, so  urbane. 

And  that  urbanity,  so  bland,  so,  in  a  way,  supercilious, 
affected  Honoria  St.  Quentin  unpleasantly.  She  was  taken 
with  unreasoning  dislike  of  the  place,  finding  something 
malign^  trenchmg  on  cruelty  even,  in  its  exalted  serenity,  its 
unchanging,  inaccessible,  mask-like  smile.  Very  certainly  the 
ancient  gods  held  court  here  yet,  the  gods  who  are  careless  of 
human  tears,  heedless  of  human  woe  !  And  she  looked  anx- 
iously at  Lady  Calmady,  penetrated  by  fear  that  the  latter  was 
about  to  be  exposed  to  some  insidious  danger,  to  come  into 
conflict  with  influences  antagonistic  and  subtly  evil.  Wicked 
deeds  had  been  committed  in  this  fair  place,  wicked  designs 
nourished  and  brought  to  fruition  here.  She  was  convinced 
of  that.  Was  convinced  further  that  those  designs  had  con- 
nection with  and  had  been  directed  against  Lady  Calmady. 
The  thought  of  Helen  de  Vallorbes,  exquisite  and  vicious, — 
as  she  now  reluctantly  admitted  her  to  be, — was  very  present 
to  her.  As  far  as  she  knew,  it  was  quite  a  number  of  years 
since  Helen  had  set  foot  in  the  villa.  Yet  it  spoke  of  her, 
spoke  of  the  mqre  dangerous  aspects  of  her  nature. — Honoria 
sighed  over  her  friend.  Helen  had  gone,  latterly,  very  much 
to  the  bad,  she  feared.  And  as  all  this  passed  rapidly  through 
her  mind  it  aroused  all  her  knight-errantry,  raising  a  strongly 
protective  spirit  in  her.  She  questioned  just  how  much  active 
care  she  might  take  of  Lady  Calmady  without  indiscretion  of 
over-forwardness. 

But  even  while  she  thus  debated,  opportunity  of  action  was 
lost.  Quietly,  a  great  simplicity  and  singleness  of  purpose  in 
her  demeanour,  without  word  spoken,  without  looking  back, 
Katherme  followed  the  house-steward  across  the  cool,  spacious 
hall,  through  a  doorway  and  out  of  sight 

And  that  singleness  of  purpose,  so  discernible  in  her  out- 
ward demeanour,  possessed  Katherine's  being  throughout. 
She  was  as  one  who  walks  in  sleep,  pushed  by  blind  impulse. 


562  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

She  was  not  conscious  of  herself,  not  conscious  of  joy  or  fear, 
or  any  emotion.  She  moved  forward  dumbly,  and  without 
volition,  towards  the  event.  Her  senses  were  confused  by 
this  transition  to  stillness  from  noise,  by  the  immobility  of  all 
surrounding  objects  after  the  reeling  landscape  on  either  hand 
the  swaying  train,  by  the  bland  and  tempered  light  after  the 
harsh  contrasts  of  glare  and  darkness  so  constantly  offered  to 
her  vision  of  late.  She  was  dazed  and  faint,  moreover,  so 
that  her  knees  trembled,  her  sensibility,  her  powers  of  realisa- 
tion and  of  sympathy,  for  the  time  being,  atrophied. 

The  house-steward  ushered  her  into  a  large,  square  room. 
The  low,  darkly-painted,  vaulted  ceiling  of  it  produced  a 
cavernous  effect.  An  orderly  disorder  prevailed,  and  a  some- 
what mournful  dimness  of  closed,  green-slatted  shutters  and 
half-drawn  curtains.  The  furniture,  costly  in  fact,  but 
dwarfed,  in  some  cases  actually  legless,  was  ranged  against  the 
squat,  carven  bookcases  that  lined  the  walls,  leaving  the  mid- 
dle of  the  room  vacant  save  for  a  low,  narrow  camp-bed. 
The  bed  stood  at  right  angles  to  the  door  by  which  Katherine 
entered,  the  head  of  it  towards  the  shuttered,  heavily-draped 
windows,  the  foot  towards  the  inside  wall  of  the  room.  At 
the  bedside  a  man  knelt  on  one  knee,  and  his  appearance 
aroused.  In  a  degree,  Katherine's  dormant  powers  of  observa- 
tion. He  had  a  short,  crisp,  black  beard  and  crisp,  black 
hair.  He  was  alert  and  energetic  of  face  and  figure,  a  man 
of  dare-devil,  humorous,  yet  kindly  eyes.  He  wore  a  blue 
serge  suit  with  brass  buttons  to  it.  He  was  in  his  stocking- 
feet.  The  wristbands  and  turn-down  collar  of  his  white  shirt 
were  immaculate.  Katherine,  lost,  trembling,  the  support  of 
the  habitual  taken  from  her,  a  stranger  in  a  strange  land,  liked 
the  man.  He  appeared  so  admirable  an  example  of  physical 
health.  He  inspired  her  with  confidence,  his  presence  seem- 
ing to  carry  with  it  assurance  of  that  which  is  wholesome, 
normal,  and  sane.  He  glanced  at  her  sharply,  not  without 
hint  of  criticism  and  of  command.  Authoritatively  he  signed 
to  her  to  remain  silent,  to  stand  at  the  head  of  the  bed,  and 
well  clear  of  it,  out  of  sight.  Katherine  did  not  resent  this. 
She  obeyed. 

And  standing  thus,  rallying  her  will  to  conscious  eflx)rt,  she 
looked  steadily,  for  the  first  time,  at  the  bed  and  that  which 
lay  upon  it.     And  so  domg  she  could  hardly  save  herself  from 


THE  NEW  HEAVEN  AND  NEW  EARTH  563 

falling,  since  she  saw  there  precisely  that  which  the  shape  of 
the  room  and  the  disarray  of  it,  along  with  vacant  space  and 
the  low  camp-bed  in  the  centre  of  that  space,  had  foretold — 
for  all  her  dumbness  of  feeling,  deadness  of  sympathy — she 
must  assuredly  see. — All  these  last  four-and-twenty  hours  she 
had  solaced  herself  with  the  phantom  society  of  Dickie  the 
baby-child,  of  Dickie  the  eager  boy,  curious  of  many  things, 
But  here  was  one  different  from  both  these.  Different,  too, 
from  the  young  man,  tremendous  in  arrogance,  and  in  revolt 
against  the  indignity  put  on  him  by  fate,  from  whom  she  had 
parted  in  such  anguish  of  spirit  nearly  five  years  back.  For^ 
in  good  truth,  she  saw  now,  not  Richard  Calmady  her  son,  hei 
anxious  charge,  whose  debtor — in  that  she  had  brought  him 
into  life  disabled — she  held  herself  eternally  to  be,  but  Rich^ 
ard  Calmady  her  husband,  the  desire  of  her  eyes,  the  glory  oi 
her  youth — saw  him,  worn  by  suffering,  disfigured  by  unsightly 
growth  of  beard,  pallid,  racked  by  mortal  weakness,  the  sheet 
expressing  the  broad  curve  of  his  chest,  the  sheet  and  light 
blanket  disclosing  the  fact  of  that  hideous  maiming  he  had 
sustained — saw  him  now  as  on  the  night  he  died. 

Captain  Vanstone,  meanwhile  reassured  as  to  the  new- 
comer's discretion  and  docility,  applied  his  mind  to  hiv 
patient. 

"  See  here,  sir,"  he  said,  banteringly  yet  tenderly,  "  w^ 
were  just  getting  along  first-rate  with  these  uncommonly 
mixed  liquors.     You  mustn't  cry  off  again.  Sir  Richard." 

He  slipped  his  arm  under  the  pillows,  dexterously  raising 
the  young  man's  head,  and  held  the  cup  to  his  lips. 

"  My  dear  good  fellow,  I  wish  you  would  let  me  be,"  Dickie 
murmured. 

He  spoke  courteously,  yet  there  were  tears  in  his  voice  for 
very  weakness.  And,  hearing  him,  it  was  as  though  some- 
thing stirred  within  Katherine  which  had  long  been  bound  by 
bitterness  of  heavy  frost. 

Vanstone  shook  his  head. — "Very  sorry,  Sir  Richard," 
he  replied.  "  Daren't  let  you  off.  I've  got  my  orders,  you 
see." 

The  bold  and  kindly  eyes  had  a  certain  n.agnetic  efficacy 
of  compulsion  in  them.  The  sick  man  drank,  swallowed 
with  difl[iculty,  yet  drank  again.  Then  he  lay  back,  for  a 
while^  his  eyes   closed,  resting.     And  Katherine  stood  at  the 


564  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

head  of  the  bed,  out  of  sight,  waiting  till  her  time  should 
come.  She  folded  her  hands  high  upon  her  bosom.  Her 
thought  remained  inarticulate,  yet  she  began  to  understand 
that  which  she  had  striven  so  sternly  to  uproot,  that  which  she 
had  supposed  she  had  extirpated,  still  remained  with  her.. 
Once  more,  with  a  terror  of  joyful  amazement,  she  began  to 
scale  the  height  and  sound  the  depth  of  human  love. 

Presently  the  voice — whether  that  of  husband  or  of  son 
she  did  not  stay  to  discriminate — it  gripped  her  very  vitals 
— reached  her  from  the  bed.  She  fancied  it  rang  a  little 
stronger. 

"  It  is  contemptibly  futile,  and  therefore  conspicuously  in 
keeping  with  the  rest,  to  have  taken  all  this  trouble  about  dy- 
ing only,  in  the  end,  to  sneak  back." 

"  Oh  !  well,  sir,  after  all  you're  not  so  very  far  on  the  re- 
turn voyage  yet !  '*  Vanstone  put  in  consolingly. 

Richard  opened  his  eyes.  Katherine's  vision  was  blurred. 
She  could  not  sec  very  clearly,  but  she  fancied  he  smiled. 

"Yes,  with  luck,  I  may  still  give  you  all  the  slip,"  he  said. 

"  Now,  a  little  more,  sir,  please.     Yes,  you  can  if  you  try." 

"  But  I  tell  you  I  don't  care  about  this  business  of  sneak- 
ing back.     I  don't  want  to  live." 

"  Very  likely  not.  But  I'm  very  much  mistaken  if  you 
want  to  die,  like  a  cat  in  a  cupboard,  here  ashore.  Mend 
enough  to  get  away  on  board  the  yacht  to  sea.  There'll  be 
time  enough  then  to  argue  the  question  out,  sir.  Half  a  mile 
of  blue  water  under  your  feet  sends  up  the  value  of  life  most 
considerably." 

As  he  spoke  the  sailor  looked  at  Katherine  Calmady.  His 
glance  enjoined  caution,  yet  conveyed  encouragement. 

"  Here,  take  down  the  rest  of  it.  Sir  Richard,"  he  said  per- 
suasively. "  Then  I  swear  I  won't  plague  you  any  more  for 
a  good  hour." 

Again  he  raised  the  sick  man  dexterously,  and  as  he  did  so 
Katherine  observed  that  a  purple  scar,  as  of  a  but  newly  healed 
wound,  ran  right  across  Dickie's  cheek  from  below  the  left 
eye  to  the  turn  of  the  lower  jaw.  And  the  sight  of  It  moved 
her  strangely,  loosening  that  last  binding  as  of  frost.  A  swift 
madness  of  anger  against  whoso  had  inflicted  that  ugly  hurt 
arose  in  Katherine,  while  her  studied  resignation,  her  strained 
passivity   of  mental  attitude,  went   down   before  a  passion  of 


THE  NEW  HEAVEN  ANt3  NEW  EARTH    565 

fierce  and  primitive  emotion.  The  spirit  of  battle  became 
dominant  in  her  along  with  an  immense  necessity  of  loving 
and  of  being  loved.  Tender  phantoms  of  past  joy  ceased  to 
solace.  The  actual,  the  concrete,  the  immediate,  compelled 
her  with  a  certain  splendour  of  demand.  Katherine  appeared 
to  grow  taller,  more  regal  of  presence.  The  noble  energy  of 
youth  and  its  limitless  generosity  returned  to  her.  Instinc- 
tively she  unfastened  her  pelisse  at  the  throat,  took  the  lace 
coif  from  her  head,  letting  it  fall  to  the  ground,  and  moved 
nearer. 

Richard  pushed  the  cup  away  from  his  lips. 

"There's  some  one  in  the  room,  Vanstone !  "  he  said,  his 
voice  harsh  with  anger.  "Some  woman — I  heard  her  dress. 
I  told  you  all — whatever  happened^ — I  would  have  no  woman 
here." 

But  Katherine,  undismayed,  came  straight  on  to  the  bed- 
side. She  loved.  She  would  not  be  gainsaid.  With  the 
whole  force  of  her  nature  she  refused  denial  of  that  love. — ■ 
For  a  brief  space  Richard  looked  at  her,  his  face  ghastly  and 
rigid  as  that  of  a  corpse.  Then  he  raised  himself  in  the  bed, 
stretching  out  both  arms,  with  a  hoarse  cry  that  tore  at  his 
throat  and  shuddered  through  all  his  frame.  And,  as  he  would 
have  fallen  forward,  exhausted  by  the  effort  to  reach  her  and 
the  lovely  shelter  of  her,  Katherine  caught  and,  kneeling,  held 
him,  his  poor  hands  clutching  impotently  at  her  shoulders,  his 
head  sinking  upon  her  breast.  While,  in  that  embrace,  not 
only  all  the  motherhood  in  her  leapt  up  to  claim  the  sonship 
in  him,  but  all  the  womanhood  in  her  leapt  up  to  claim  the 
manhood  in  him,  thereby  making  the  broken  circle  of  her 
being  once  more  wholly  perfect  and  complete,  so  that  carrying 
the  whole  dear  burden  of  his  fever-wasted  body  in  her  encir- 
cling arms  and  upon  her  breast,  even  as  she  had  carried,  long 
since,  that  dear  fruit  of  love,  the  unborn  babe,  within  her 
womb,  Katherine  was  taken  with  a  very  ecstasy  and  rapture 
of  content. 

"  My  beloved  is  mine — is  mine  !  "  she  cried, — "  and  I  am 
his." 

Captain  Vanstone  was  on  his  feet  and  half-way  across  the 
>om. 

"  Man  alive,  but  it  hurts  like  merry  hell !  "  he  said,  as  he 
softly  closed  the  door. 


566  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 


CHAPTER  III 

CONCERNING   A   SPIRIT    IN    PRISON 

TTPON  those  moments  of  rapture  followed  days  of  trem* 
^  bling,  during  which  the  sands  of  Richard  Calmady's 
life  ran  very  low,  and  his  brain  wandered  in  delirium,  and  he 
spoke  unwittingly  of  many  matters  of  which  it  was  unprofit- 
able to  hear.  Periods  of  unconsciousness,  when  he  lay  as 
one  dead ;  periods  of  incessant  utterance — now  violent  in  un- 
availing repudiation,  now  harsh  with  unavailing  remorse — 
alternated.  And,  at  this  juncture,  much  of  Lady  Calmady's 
former  very  valiant  pride  asserted  itself.  In  tender  jealousy 
for  the  honour  of  her  beloved  one  she  shut  the  door  of  that 
sick-room,  of  sinister  aspect,  against  brother  and  friend,  and 
even  against  the  faithful  Clara.  None  should  see  or  hear 
Richard  in  his  present  alienation  and  abjection,  save  herself 
and  those  who  had  hitherto  ministered  to  him.  He  should  re- 
gain a  measure,  at  least,  of  his  old  distinction  and  beauty  be- 
fore any,  beyond  these,  looked  on  his  face.  And  so  his  own 
men-servants — Captain  Vanstone,  capable,  humorous,  and 
alert — and  Price,  the  red-headed,  Welsh  first-mate,  of  varied 
and  voluminous  gift  of  invective — continued  to  nurse  him. 
These  men  loved  him.  They  would  be  loyal  in  silence, 
since,  whatever  his  lapses,  Dickie  was  and  always  had  been — 
as  Katherine  reflected — among  the  number  of  those  happily- 
endowed  persons  who  triumphantly  give  the  lie  to  the  cynical 
saying  that  "  no  man  is  a  hero  to  his  valet  de  chamhre'^ 

To  herself  Katherine  reserved  the  right  to  enter  that  sin- 
ister sick-room  whenever  she  pleased,  and  to  sit  by  the  bedside, 
waiting  for  the  moment — should  it  ever  come — when  Richard 
would  again  recognise  her,  and  give  himself  to  her  again. 
And  those  vigils  proved  a  searching  enough  experience,  not- 
withstanding her  long  apprenticeship  to  service  of  sorrow — 
which  was  also  the  service  of  her  son.  For,  in  the  mental 
and  moral  nudity  of  delirium,  he  made  strange  revelation, 
not  only  of  acts  committed,  but  of  inherent  tendencies  of 


THE  NEW  HEAVEN  AND  NEW  EARTH    567 

character  and  of  thought.  He  spoke,  with  bewildering  in- 
consequence and  intimacy,  of  incidents  and  of  persons  with 
whom  she  was  unacquainted,  causing  her  to  follow  him — a 
rather  brutal  pilgrimage — into  regions  where  the  feet  of 
women,  bred  and  i^urtured  like  herself,  but  seldom  tread.  He 
spoke  of  persons  with  whom  she  was  well  acquainted  also, 
and  whose  names  arrested  her  attention  with  pathetic  signifi- 
cance, offering,  for  the  moment,  secure  standing  ground  amid 
the  shifting  quicksand  of  his  but  half-comprehended  words. 
He  spoke  of  Morabita,  the  famous  prima  donna^  and  of  gentle 
Mrs.  Chifney  down  at  the  Brockhurst  racing-stables.  He 
grew  heated  in  discussion  with  Lord  Fallowfeild.  He  petted 
little  Lady  Constance  Quayle.  He  called  Camp,  coaxed  and 
chaffed  the  dog  merrily — whereat  Lady  Calmady  rose  from 
her  place  by  the  bedside  and  stood  at  one  of  the  dim,  shut- 
tered windows  for  a  while.  He  spoke  of  places,  too,  and  of 
happenings  in  them,  from  Westchurch  to  Constantinople, 
from  a  nautch  at  Singapore  to  a  country  fair  at  Farley  Row. 
But,  recurrent  through  all  his  wanderings,  were  allusions,  un- 
sparing in  revolt  and  in  self-abasement,  to  a  woman  whom  he 
had  loved  and  who  had  dealt  very  vilely  with  him,  putting 
some  unpardonable  shame  upon  him,  and  to  a  man  whom  he 
himself  had  very  basely  wronged.  The  name,  neither  of  man 
nor  woman,  did  Katherine  learn. — Madame  de  Vallorbes' 
name,  for  which  she  could  not  but  listen,  he  never  mentioned, 
nor  did  he  mention  her  own. — And  recurrent,  also,  running 
as  a  black  thread  through  all  his  speech,  was  lament,  not  un- 
manly but  very  terrible  to  hear — the  lament  of  a  creature, 
captive,  maimed,  imprisoned,  perpetually  striving,  perpetually 
frustrated  in  the  effort,  to  escape.  And,  noting  all  this, 
Katherine  not  only  divined  very  dark  and  evil  pages  in  the 
history  of  her  beloved  one,  but  a  struggle  so  continuous  and  a 
sorrow  so  abiding  that,  in  her  estimation  at  all  events,  they 
cancelled  and  expiated  the  darkness  and  evil  of  those  same 
pages.  While  the  mystery,  both  of  wrong  done  and  sorrow 
suffered,  so  wrought  upon  her  that,  having,  in  the  first  ec- 
stasy of  recovered  human  love,  deserted  and  depreciated  the 
godward  love  a  little,  she  now  ran  back  imploring  assurance 
and  renewal  of  that  last,  in  all  penitence  and.  humility,  lest, 
deprived  of  the  counsel  and  sure  support  of  it,  she  should  fail 
to  read  the  present  and  deal  with  the  future  aright — if,  indeed. 


568  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

any  future  still  remained  for  that  beloved  one  other  than  the 
yawning  void  of  death  and  inscrutable  silence  of  the  grave  ! 

The  better  part  of  a  week  passed  thus,  and  then,  one  fair 
morning,  Winter,  bringing  her  breakfast  to  the  anteroom  of 
that  same  sea-blue,  sea-green  bedchamber — sometime  tenanted 
by  Helen  de  Vallorbes — disclosed  a  beaming  countenance. 

''Mr.  Powell  wishes  me  to  inform  your  ladyship  that  Sir 
Richard  has  passed  a  very  good  night.  He  has  come  to  him- 
self, my  lady,  and  has  asked  for  you." 

The  butler's  hands  shook  as  he  set  down  the  tray. 

"  I  hope  your  ladyship  will  take  something  to  eat  before 
you  go  down-stairs,"  he  added.  "  Mr.  Powell  told  Sir  Rich- 
ard that  it  was  still  early,  and  he  desired  that  on  no  consider- 
ation should  you  be  hurried." 

Which  little  word  of  thoughtfulness  on  Dickie's  part 
brought  a  roundness  to  Katherine's  cheek  and  a  soft  shining 
into  her  sweet  eyes,  so  that  Honoria  St.  Quentin,  sauntering 
into  the  room  just  then  with  her  habitual  lazy  grace,  stood  still 
a  moment  in  pleased  surprise,  noting  the  change  in  her  friend's 
appearance. 

"  Why,  dear  Cousin  Katherine,"  she  asked,  "  what's  hap- 
pened ?     All's  right  with  the  world  ! " 

"  Yes,"  Katherine  answered.  "  God's  very  much  in  His 
heaven,  to-day,  and  all's  right  with  all  the  world,  because 
things  are  a  little  more  right  with  one  man  in  it. — That  is  the 
woman's  creed — always  has  been,  I  suppose,  and  I  rather  hope 
always  will  be.  It  is  frankly  personal  and  individualistic,  I 
know.  Possibly  it  is  contemptibly  narrow-minded.  Still  I 
doubt  if  she  will  readily  find  another  one  which  makes  for 
greater  happiness  or  fulness  of  life.  You  don't  agree,  dearest, 
I  know — nevertheless  pour  out  my  tea  for  me,  will  you  ?  I 
want  to  dispose  of  this  necessary  evil  of  breakfast  with  all 
possible  despatch.  Richard  has  sent  for  me.  He  has  slept 
and  is  awake." 

And  as  Miss  St.  Quentin  served  her  dear  friend,  she 
pondered  this  speech  curiously,  saying  to  herself: — "Yes,  I 
did  right,  though  I  never  liked  Ludovic  Quayle  better  than 
now,  and  never  liked  any  other  man  as  well  as  I  like  Ludovic 
Quayle.  But  that's  not  enough.  I'm  getting  hold  of  the 
appearance  of  the  thing,  but  1  haven't  got  hold  of  the  thing 
itself.     And  so  the  woman  in  me  must  continue  to  be  kept  in 


THE  NEW  HEAVEN  AND  NEW  EARTH    569 

::he  back  attic.  She  shall  be  denied  all  further  development. 
She  shall  have  nothing  unless  she  can  have  the  whole  of  ity 
and  repeat  Cousin  Katherine's  creed  from  her  heart." 

Richard  did  not  speak  when  Lady  Calmady  crossed  the 
room  and  sat  down  at  the  bedside.  He  barely  raised  his  eye- 
lids. But  he  felt  out  for  her  hand  across  the  surface  of  the 
sheet.  And  she  took  the  proffered  hand  in  both  hers  and  fell 
to  stroking  the  palm  of  it  with  her  finger-tips.  And  this 
silent  greeting,  and  confiding  contact  of  hand  with  hand,  was 
to  her  exquisitely  healing.  It  gave  an  assurance  of  nearness 
and  acknowledged  ownership,  more  satisfying  and  convincing, 
than  many  eloquent  phrases  of  welcome.  And  so  she,  too^ 
remained  silent,  only  indeed  permitting  herself,  for  a  little 
while,  to  look  at  him,  lest  so  doing  she  should  make  further 
demand  upon  his  poor  quantity  of  strength.  A  folding  screen 
in  stamped  leather,  of  which  age  had  tempered  the  ruby  and 
gold  to  a  sober  harmony  of  tone,  had  been  placed  round  the 
head  of  the  bed,  throwing  this  last  into  clear,  quiet  shadow. 
The  bed  linen  was  fresh  and  smooth.  Richard  had  made  a 
little  toilet.  His  silk  shirt,  open  at  the  throat,  was  also  fresh 
and  smooth.  He  was  clean  shaven,  his  hair  cropped  into  that 
closely-fitting,  bright-brown  cap  of  curls.  Katherine  per- 
ceived that  his  beauty  had  begun  to  return  to  him,  though  his 
face  was  distressingly  worn  and  emaciated,  and  the  longy 
purplish  line  of  that  unexplained  scar  still  disfigured  his  cheek. 
His  hands  were  little  more  than  skin  and  bone.  Indeed,  he 
was  fragile,  she  feared,  as  any  person  could  be  who  yet  had 
life  in  him,  and  she  wondered,  rather  fearfully,  if  it  was  yet 
possible  to  build  up  that  life  again  into  any  joy  of  energy^ 
and  of  activity.  But  she  put  such  fears  from  her  as  un- 
worthy. For  were  they  not  together,  he  and  she,  actually  and 
consciously  reunited  ?  That  was  sufficient.  The  rest  could 
wait. 

And  to-day,  as  though  lending  encouragement  to  gracious 
hopes,  the  usually  gloomy  and  cavernous  room  had  taken  to 
itself  a  quite  generous  plenishing  of  air  and  light.  The 
heavy  curtains  were  drawn  aside.  The  casements  of  one  of 
the  square,  squat  windows  were  thrown  widely  open.  The 
slatted  shutters  without  were  partially  opened  likewise.  A 
shaft  of  strong  sunshine  slanted  in  and  lay,  like  a  bright  high- 
way, across  the  rich  colours  of  the  Persian  carpet.     The  air 


570  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

was  hot  but  nimble,  and  of  a  vivacious  and  stimulating 
quality.  It  fluttered  some  loose  papers  on  the  vi^riting-table 
near  the  open  window.  It  fluttered  the  delicate  laces  and  fine 
muslin  frills  of  Lady  Calmady's  morning-gown.  There  u»as 
a  sprightly  mirthfulness  in  the  touch  of  it,  not  unpleasing  to 
iher.  For  it  seemed  to  speak  of  the  ever-obtaining  youth,  the 
incalculable  power  of  recuperation,  the  immense  reconstruc- 
tive energy  resident  in  nature  and  the  physical  domain.  And 
there  was  comfort  in  that  thought.  She  turned  her  eyes  from 
the  bed  and  its  somewhat  sorrowful  burden — the  handsome 
head,  the  broad,  though  angular,  shoulders,  the  face,  immobile 
and  mask-like,  with  closed  eyelids  and  unsmiling  lips,  reposing 
upon  the  whiteness  of  the  pillows — and  fixed  them  upon  that 
radiant  space  of  outer  world  visible  between  the  dark-fra- 
ming of  the  half-open  shutters.  Beyond  the  dazzling,  black- 
and-white  chequer  of  the  terrace  and  balustrade,  they  rested 
on  the  cool  green  of  the  formal  garden,  the  glistering  dome 
and  slender  columns  of  the  pavilion  set  in  the  angle  of  the 
terminal  wall. — And  this  last  reminded  her  quaintly  of  that 
other  pavilion,  embroidered,  with  industry  of  innumerable 
stitches,  upon  the  curtains  of  the  state  bed  at  home — that 
pavilion,  set  for  rest  and  refreshment  in  the  midst  of  the 
tangled  ways  of  the  Forest  of  This  Life,  where  the  Hart  may 
breathe  in  security,  fearless  of  Care,  the  pursuing  Leopard, 
which  follows  all  too  close  behind. — Owing  to  her  position 
and  the  sharp  drop  of  the  hillside,  Naples  itself,  the  great 
painted  city,  its  fine  buildings  and  crowded  shipping,  was  un- 
seen. But,  far  away,  the  lofty  promontory  of  Sorrento 
sketched  itself  in  palest  lilac  upon  the  azure  of  the  sea  and 
sky. 

And,  as  Katherine  reasoned,  if  this  fair  prospect,  after  so 
many  ages  of  tumultuous  history  and  the  shock  of  calamitous 
events,  after  battle,  famine,  terror  of  earthquake  and  fire, 
devastation  by  foul  disease,  could  still  recover  and  present 
such  an  effect  of  triumphant  youthfulness,  such,  at  once 
august  and  mirthful,  charm,  might  not  her  beloved  one,  lying 
here  broken  in  health  and  in  spirit,  likewise  regain  the  glory 
of  his  manhood  and  the  delight  of  it,  notwithstanding  present 
weakness  and  mournful  eclipse  ? — Yes,  it  would  come  right — 
come  right — Katherine  told  herself,  thereby  making  one  of 
those  magnificent  acts   of  faith  which  go  so  far  to  produce 


THE  NEW  HEAVEN  AND  NEW  EARTH    571 

just  that  which  they  prophesy.  God  could  not  have  created 
so  complex  and  beautiful  a  creature,  and  permitted  it  so  to 
suffer,  save  to  the  fulfilment  of  some  clear  purpose  which 
would  very  surely  be  made  manifest  at  last.  God  Almighty 
should  be  justified  of  His  strange  handiwork  ;  and  she  of  her 
love  before  the  whole  of  the  story  was  told. — And,  stirred  by 
these  thoughts,  and  by  the  fervour  of  her  own  pious  con- 
fidence, Katherine's  finger-tips  traveled  more  rapidly  over  the 
palm  of  that  outstretched  and  passive  hand.  Then,  on  a 
sudden,  she  became  aware  that  Richard  was  looking  fixedly 
at  her.  She  turned  her  head  proudly,  the  exaltation  of  a  living 
faith  very  present  in  her  smile. 

"  You  are  the  same,"  he  said  slowly.  His  voice  was  low^ 
toneless,  and  singularly  devoid  of  emotion. — "  Deliciously  the 
same.  You  are  just  as  lovely.  You  still  have  your  pretty 
colour.     You  are  hardly  a  day  older " 

He  paused,  still  regarding  her  fixedly. 

"  I'm  glad  you  have  got  on  one  of  those  white,  frilly  things 
you  used  to  wear.     I  always  liked  them." 

Katherine  could  not  speak  just  then.  This  sudden  and 
complete  intimacy  unnerved  her.  It  was  so  long  since  any 
one  had  spoken  to  her  thus.  It  was  very  dear  to  her,  yet 
the  toneless  voice  gave  a  strange  unreality  to  the  tender  words. 

"  It's  a  matter  for  congratulation  that  you  are  the  same,'*' 
Richard  went  on,  "  since  everything  else,  it  appears,  is 
destined  to  continue  the  same.  One  should  have  one  thing  it 
is  agreeable  to  contemplate  in  that  connection,  considering  the 
vast  number  of  things  altogether  the  reverse  of  agreeable 
which  one  fondly  hoped  one  was  rid  of  forever,  and  whicb 
intrude  themselves." 

He  shifted  himself  feebly  on  the  pillows,  and  the  flicker  of 
a  smile  crossed  his  face. 

"  Poor,  dear  mother,"  he  said,  "  you  see  again,  without  de- 
lay, the  old  bad  habit  of  grumblmg  !  " 

"  Grumble  on,  grumble  on,  my  best  beloved,"  Katherine 
murmured,  while  her  finger-tips  traveled  softly  over  his  palm* 

"  Verily  and  indeed,  you  are  the  same  !  "  Richard  rejoined. 
Once  more  he  lay  looking  full  at  her,  until  she  became  almost 
abashed  by  that  unswerving  scrutiny.  It  came  over  her  that 
the  plane  of  their  relation  had  changed.  Richard  was,  as 
never  heretofore,  her  equal,  a  man  grown^ 


572  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 


Suddenly  he  spoke. 

"  Can  you  forgive  me  ?  " 

And  so  far  had  Katherine's  thought  journeyed  from  the 
past,  so  absorbed  was  it  in  the  present,  that  she  answered,  sur- 
prised : — 

"  My  dearest,  forgive  what  ?  " 

"Injustice,  ingratitude,  desertion,"  Richard  said,  "neglect, 
systematic  cruelty.  There  is  plenty  to  swell  the  list.  All  I 
boasted  I  would  do  I  have  done — and  more." — His  voice, 
until  now  so  even  and  emotionless,  faltered  a  little.  "  I  have 
sinned  against  heaven  and  before  thee,  and  am  no  more 
worthy  to  be  called  thy  son." 

Katherine's  hand  closed  down  on  his  firmly. 

"  All  that,  as  far  as  I  am  concerned,  is  as  though  it  was  not 
and  never  had  been,"  she  answered. — "  So  much  for  judg- 
ment on  earth,  dearest. — While  in  heaven,  thank  God,  we 
know  there  is  more  joy  over  the  one  sinner  who  repents  than 
over  the  ninety-and-nine  just   persons  who  need  no  repent- 


ance." 


u 


And  you  really  believe  that  ?  "  Richard  said,  speaking  half 
indulgently,  half  ironically,  as  if  to  a  child. 

"  Assuredly,  I  believe  it." 

"  But  supposing  the  sinner  is  not  repentant,  but  merely 
cowed  ?  " — Richard  straightened  his  head  on  the  pillows  and 
closed  his  eyes.  '^  You  gave  me  leave  to  grumble — well, 
then,  I  am  so  horribly  disappointed.  Here  have  life  and 
death  been  sitting  on  either  side  of  me  for  the  past  month,  and 
throwing  with  dice  for  me.  I  saw  them  as  plainly  as  I  can 
see  you.  The  queer  thing  was  they  were  exactly  alike,  yet  I 
knew  them  apart  from  the  first.  Day  and  night  I  heard  the 
rattle  of  the  dice — it  became  hideously  monotonous — and  felt 
the  mouth  of  the  dice-box  on  my  chest  when  they  threw.  I 
backed  death  heavily.  It  seemed  to  me  there  were  ways  of 
loading  the  dice.  I  loaded  them.  But  it  wasn't  to  be, 
mother.  Life  always  threw  the  highest  numbers — and  life 
had  the  last  throw." 

"  I  praise  God  for  that,"  Katherine  said,  very  softly. 

"  I  don't,  unfortunately,"  he  answered.  "  I  hoped  for  a 
neat  little  execution — a  little  pain,  perhaps,  a  little  shedding 
of  blood,  without  which  there  is  no  remission  of  sins — but  I 
suppose  that  would  have  been  letting  me  off  too  easy." 


THE  NEW  HEAVEN  AND  NEW  EARTH    57J 

He  drew  away  his  hand  and  covered  his  eyes. 

''  When  I  had  seen  you  I  seemed  to  have  made  my  final", 
peace.  I  understood  why  I  had  been  kept  waiting  till  then. 
Having  seen  you,  I  flattered  myself  I  might  decently  get  free- 
Ht  last.  But  I  am  branded  afresh,  that's  all,  and  sent  back  to 
the  galleys.*' 

Lady  Calmady's  eyes  sought  the  radiant  prospect — the 
green  of  the  garden,  the  slender  columns  of  the  airy  pavilion,, 
the  lilac  land  set  in  the  azure  of  sea  and  sky.  No  words  of 
hers  could  give  comfort  as  yet,  so  she  would  remain  silent.. 
Her  trust  was  in  the  amiable  ministry  of  time,  which  may^ 
bring  solace  to  the  tormented,  human  soul,  even  as  it  reclothes^ 
^e  mountainside  swept  by  the  lava  stream,  or  cleanses  and 
■fenders  gladly  habitable  the  plague  devastated  city. 

But  there  was  a  movement  upon  the  bed.  Richard  had 
turned  on  his  side.  He  had  recovered  his  self-control,  and 
once  more  looked  fixedly  at  her. 

"  Mother,"  he  said  calmly,  "  is  your  love  great  enough  to 
take  me  back,  and  give  yourself  to  me  again,  though  I  am  not 
fit  so  much  as  to  kiss  the  hem  of  your  garment  ?  " 

"There  is  neither  giving  nor  taking,  mv  beloved,"  she 
answered,  smiling  upon  him.  "In  the  truth  of  things,  you 
have  never  left  me,  neither  have  I  ever  let  you  go." 

"  Ah  !  but  consider  these  last  four  years  and  their  record !  '* 
he  rejoined.  "  I  am  not  the  same  man  that  I  was.  There's 
no  getting  away  from  fact,  from  deeds  actually  done,  or  words: 
actually  said,  for  that  matter.  I  have  kept  my  singularly  re- 
pulsive infirmity  of  body,  and  to  it  I  have  added  a  mind  fester- 
mg  with  foul  memories.  I  have  been  a  brute  to  you,  a  traitor 
to  a  friend  who  trusted  me.  I  have  been  a  sensualist,  an 
adulterer.  And  I  am  hopelessly  broken  in  pride  and  self- 
respect.  The  conceit,  the  pluck  even,  has  been  licked  right 
out  of  me." — Richard  paused,  steadying  his  voice  which 
faltered  again. — "  I  only  want,  since  it  seems  Tve  got  to  go 
on  living,  to  slink  away  somewhere  out  of  sight,  and  hide  my- 
self and  my  wretchedness  and  shame  from  every  one  I  know. 
— Can  you  bear  with  me,  soured  and  invalided  as  I  am,, 
mother .?  Can  you  put  up  with  my  temper,  and  my  silence,,, 
and  my  grumbling,  useless  log  as  I  must  continue  to  be  ?  " 

"Yes — everlastingly  yes,"  Katherine  answered. 

Richard  threw  himself  flat  on  his  back  again. 


574  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

"Ah  !  how  I  hate  myself — my  God,  how  I  hate  myself!  *' 
he  exclaimed. 

"  And  how  beyond  all  worlds  I  love  you,"  Katherine  put 
in  quietly. 

He  felt  out  for  her  hand  across  the  sheet,  found  and  held 
it.  There  were  footsteps  upon  the  terrace  to  the  right,  the 
scent  of  a  cigar,  Ludovic  Quayle's  voice  in  question,  Honoria 
St.  Quentin's  in  answer,  both  with  enforced  discretion  and 
lowness  of  tone.  General  Ormiston  joined  them.  Miss  St. 
Quentin  laughed  gently.  The  sound  was  musicial  and  sweet. 
Footsteps  and  voices  died  away.  A  clang  of  bells  and  the 
hooting  of  an  outward-bound  liner  came  up  from  the  city  and 
the  port. 

Richard's  calm  had  returned.      His  expression  had  softened. 

"Will  those  two  marry?  "  he  asked  presently. 

Lady  Calmady  paused  before  speaking. 

"  I  hope  so — for  Ludovic's  sake,"  she  said.  "  He  has 
served,  if  not  quite  Jacob's  seven  years,  yet  a  full  five  for  his 
love." 

"  If  for  Ludovic's  sake,  why  not  for  hers  ? "  Dickie  asked. 

"  Because  two  halves  don't  always  make  a  whole  in  mar- 
riage," Katherine  said. 

"  You  are  as  great  an  idealist  as  ever  ! " — He  paused,  then 
raised  himself,  sitting  upright,  speaking  with  a  certain  passion. 

"  Mother,  will  you  take  me  away,  away  from  every  one,  at 
once,  just  as  soon  as  possible  ?  I  never  want  to  see  this 
room,  or  this  house,  or  Naples  again.  The  climax  was 
reached  here  of  disillusion,  and  of  iniquity,  and  of  degradation. 
Don't  ask  what  it  was.  I  couldn't  tell  you.  And,  merci- 
fully, only  one  person,  whose  lips  are  sealed  in  self-defense, 
knows  exactly  what  took  place  besides  myself.  But  I  want 
to  get  away,  away  alone  with  you,  who  are  perfectly  unsullied 
and  compassionate,  and  who  have  forgiven  me,  and  who  still 
can  love.  Will  you  come?  Will  you  take  me?  The  yacht 
is  all  ready  for  sea." 

"  Yes,"  Katherine  said. 

"  I  asked  this  morning  who  was  here  with  you,  and  Powell 
told  me.  I  can't  see  them,  mother,  simply  I  can't !  I 
haven't  the  nerve.  I  haven't  the  face.  Can  you  send  them 
away  ?  " 

*•'  Yes,"  Katherine  said. 


THE  NEW  HEAVEN  AND  NEW  EARTH    575 

Richard's  eyes  had  grown  dangerously  bright,  A  spot  of 
colour  burned  on  either  cheek.     Katherine  leaned  over  him. 

"  My  dearest,"  she  declared,  "you  have  talked  enough." 

"Yes,  they're  beginning  to  play  again,  I  can  hear  the  rattle 
of  the  dice. — Mother  take  me  aw^ay,  take  me  out  to  sea,  away 
from  this  dreadful  place. — Ah  !  you  poor  darling,  how  horribly 
selfish  I  am! — But  let  me  get  out  to  sea,  and  then  later,  take 
me  home — to  Brockhurst.  The  house  is  big.  Nobody  need 
see  me." 

"  No,  no,"  Katherine  said,  laying  him  back  with  tender 
force  upon  the  pillows. — "  No  one  has  seen  you,  no  one  shall 
see  you.  We  will  be  alone,  you  and  I,  just  as  long  as  you. 
wish.     With  me,  my  beloved,  you  are  very  safe." 


CHAPTER  IV 

DEALING   WITH    MATTERS    OF     HEARSAY   AND   MATTERS   OF 

SPORT 

/^NE  raw,  foggy  evening,  early  in  the  following  December,, 
the  house  at  Newlands  presented  an  unusually  animated 
scene.  On  the  gravel  of  the  carriage-sweep,  without,  grooms 
walked  breathed  and  sweating  horses — the  steam  from  whose 
bodies  and  nostrils  showed  white  in  the  chill  dusk — slowly  up 
and  down.  In  the  hall,  within,  a  number  of  gentlemen,  more 
or  less  mud-bespattered,  regaled  themselves  with  cheerful  con- 
versation, with  strong  waters  of  unexceptionable  quality,  and 
with  their  host,  Mr.  Cathcart's  very  excellent  cigars.  They 
moved  stiffly  and  stood  in  attitudes  more  professional  than 
elegant.  The  long,  clear-coloured  drawing-room  beyond 
offered  a  perspective  of  much  amiable  comfort.  The  glazed 
surfaces  of  its  flowery-patterned  chintzes  gave  back  the  bright- 
ness of  candles  and  shaded  lamps,  while  drawn  curtains  shut 
out  the  somewhat  mournful  prospect  of  sodden  garden,  bare, 
trees,  and  gray,  enshrouding  mist.  At  the  tea-table,  large,, 
mild,  reposeful,  clothed  in  wealth  of  black  silk  and  black  lace,, 
was  Mrs.  Cathcart.  Lord  Fallowfeild,  his  handsome,  infantile- 
countenance  beaming  with  good-nature  and  good-health  above 
his  blue-and- white,  bird's-eye   stock  and  scarlet  hunting-coat,, 


576  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

sat  by  her  discoursing  with  great  affability  and  at  great  length. 
Mary  Ormiston  stood  near  them,  an  expression  of  kindly 
diversion  upon  her  face.  Her  figure  had  grown  somewhat 
matronly  in  these  days,  and  there  were  lines  in  her  forehead 
and  about  the  corners  of  her  rather  large  mouth,  but  her  crisp 
hair  was  still  untouched  by  gray,  her  bright,  gipsy-like  com- 
plexion had  retained  its  freshness,  she  possessed  the  same 
effect  of  wholesomeness  and  good  sense  as  of  old,  while  her 
honest,  brown  eyes  were  soft  with  satisfied  mother-love  as 
they  met  those  of  the  slender,  black-headed  boy  at  her  side. — 
Godfrey  Ormiston  was  in  his  second  term  at  Eton,  and  had 
come  to  Newlands  to-day  for  his  exeat. — The  little  party  was 

vcompleted  by  Lord  Shotover,  who  stood  before  the  fire  warm- 
ing that  part  of  his  person  which  by  the  lay  mind,  unversed  in 
such  mysteries,  might  have  been  judged  to  be  already  more 
than   sufficiently  warmed  by  the   saddle,  his  feet  planted  far 

'apart  and  a  long  glass  of  brandy  and  soda  in  his  hand.  For 
this  last  he  had  offered  good-tempered  apology. 

"  I  know  Tve  no  business  to  bring  it  in  here,  Mrs.  Cath- 
cart,"  he  said,  ''  and  make  your  drawing-room  smell  like  a 
pot-house.     But,  you  see,  there  was   a  positive  stampede  for 

^the  hearth-rug  in  the  hall.  A  modest  man,  such  as  myself, 
hadn't  a  chance.  There's  a  regular  rampart,  half  the  county 
in  fact,  before  that  fire.  So  I  thought  I'd  just  slope  in  here, 
don't  you  know  ?  It  looked  awfully  warm  and  inviting.  And 
then  I  wanted  to  pay  my  respects  to  Mrs.  Ormiston  too,  and 
talk  to  this  young  chap  about  Eton  in  peace." 

Whereat  Godfrey  flushed  up  to  the  roots  of  his  hair,  being 
very  sensibly  exalted.  Since  what  young  male  creature  who 
knew  anything  really  worth  knowing — that  was  Godfrey's 
way  of  putting  it  at  least — did  not  know  that  Lord  Shotover 
had  been  a  mighty  sportsman  from  his  youth  up,  and  upon  a 
certain  famous  occasion  had  won  the  Grand  National  on  his 
own  horse  ? 

'^  Only  tea  for  me,  Mrs.  Cathcart,"  Lord  Fallowfeild  was 
saying.  "  Capital  thing  tea.  Never  touch  spirits  in  the  day- 
time and  never  have.     No  reflection  upon  other  men's  habits." 

He  turned  an  admiring,  fatherly  glance  upon  the  tall,  well- 
made  Shotover. — "  Other  men   know  their  own  business  best. 

JVlways  have   been   a  great  advocate  for  believing  every  man 

^nows  his  own  business  best.     Still  stick  to  my  own  habits. 


THE  NEW  HEAVEN  AND  NEW  EARTH    577 

Like  to  be  consistent.  Very  steadying,  sobering  thing  to  be 
consistent,  very  strengthening  to  the  character.  Always  have 
told  all  my  children  that.  As  you  begin,  so  you  shall  go  on. 
Always  have  tried  to  begin  as  I  was  going  on.  Haven't 
always  succeeded,  but  have  made  an  honest  eiFort.  And  it  is 
something,  you  know,  to  make  an  honest  effort.  Try  to 
bear  that  in  mind,  you  young  gentleman," — this,  genially,  to 
Godfrey  Ormiston.  "  Not  half  a  bad  rule  to  start  in  life  with, 
to  go  on  as  you  begin,  you  know." 

"  Always  provided  you  start  right,  you  know,  my  dear  fel- 
low," Shotover  observed,  patting  the  boy's  shoulder  with  his 
disengaged  hand,  and  looking  at  the  boy's  mother  with  a 
humorous  suggestion  of  self-depreciation.  Now,  as  formerly, 
he  entertained  the  very  friendliest  sentiments  towards  all  good 
women,  yet  maintained  an  expensively  extensive  acquaintance 
with  women  to  whom  that  adjective  is  not  generically  applica- 
ble. 

But  Lord  Fallowfeild  was  fairly  under  weigh.  Words 
flowed  from  him,  careless  of  comment  or  of  interruption.  He 
was  innocently  and  conspicuously  happy.  He  had  enjoyed  a 
fine  day's  sport  in  company  with  his  favourite  son,  whose 
financial  embarrassments  were  not,  it  may  be  added,  just  now 
in  a  critical  condition.  And  then,  access  of  material  prosperity 
had  recently  come  to  Lord  Fallowfeild  in  the  shape  of  a  con- 
siderable coal-producing  property  in  the  North  of  Midland- 
shire.  The  income  derived  from  this — amounting  to  from 
ten  to  twelve  thousand  a  year — was  payable  to  him  during  his 
lifetime,  with  remainder,  on  trust,  in  equal  shares  to  all  his 
children.  There  were  good  horses  in  the  Whitney  stables 
now,  and  no  question  of  making  shift  to  let  the  house  in  Bel- 
grave  Square  for  the  season,  while  the  amiable  nobleman's 
banking-account  showed  a  far  from  despicable  balance.  And 
consciousness  of  this  last  fact  formed  an  agreeable  undercur- 
rent to  his  every  thought.  Therefore  was  he  even  more  than 
usually  garrulous  according  to  his  own  kindly  and  innocent 
fashion. 

"  Very  hospitable  and  friendly  of  you  and  Cathcart,  to  be 
sure,"  he  continued,  "to  throw  open  your  house  in  this  way. 
Kindness  alike  to  man  and  beast,  man  and  beast,  for  which  my 
son  and  I  are  naturally  very  grateful." 

Lord   Shotover   looked   at   Mary  again,    smiling. — "Little 


578  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

mixed   that  statement,  isn't   it,"  he  said,  "  unless  we  take  for 
granted  that  Pm  the  beast  ?  " 

*^  I  was  a  good  deal  perplexed,  I  own,  Mrs.  Cathcart,  as  to 
how  we  should  get  home  without  giving  the  horses  a  rest  and 
having  them  gruelled.     Fourteen  miles " 

"A  precious  long  fourteen  too,"  put  in  Shotover. 

*'  So  it  is,"  his  father  agreed,  "  a  long  fourteen.  And  my 
horse  was  pumped,  regularly  pumped.  I  can't  bear  to  see  a 
horse  as  done  as  that.  It  distresses  me,  downright  distresses 
me.  Hate  to  over-press  a  horse.  Hate  to  over-press  any- 
thing that  can't  stand  up  to  you  and  take  its  revenge  on  you. 
Always  feel  ashamed  of  myself  if  I've  over-pressed  a  horse* 
But  I  hadn't  reckoned  on  the  distance." 

'^  'The  pace  was  too  hot  to  inquire,'  "  quoted  Shotover. 

"  So  it  was.  Meeting  at  Grimshott,  you  see,  we  very 
rarely  kill  so  far  on  this  side  of  the  country." 

"  Breaking  just  where  he  did,  I'd  have  bet  on  that  fox 
doubling  back  under  Talepenny  wood  and  making  across  the 
vale  for  the  earths  in  the  big  Brockhurst  warren,^'  Lord  Shot- 
over  declared. 

"  Would  you,  though  ?  "  said  his  father.  "  Very  reasonable 
forecast,  very  reasonable,  indeed.  Quite  the  likeliest  thing 
for  him  to  do,  only  he  didn't  do  it.  Don't  believe  that  fox 
belonged  to  this  side  of  the  country  at  all.  Don't  understand 
his  tactics.  If  it  had  been  in  my  poor  friend  Denier's  time,  I 
might  have  suspected  him  of  being  a  bagman." 

Lord  Fallowfeild  chuckled  a  little. 

*'  Ran  too  straight  for  a  bagman,"  Shotover  remarked. 
'^  Well,  he  gave  us  a  rattling  good  spin  whose-ever  fox  he 
was." 

"  Didn't  he,  though  ? "  said  Lord  Fallowfeild  genially. — 
He  turned  sideways  in  his  chair,  threw  one  shapely  leg  across 
the  other,  and  addressed  himself  more  exclusively  to  his  host- 
ess. "  Haven't  had  such  a  day  for  years,"  he  continued. 
"And  a  very  pleasant  thing  to  have  such  a  day  just  when  my 
son's  down  with  me — very  pleasant,  indeed.  It  reminds  me 
of  my  poor,  dear  friend  Henniker's  time.  Good  fellow,  Hen- 
niker.  I  liked  Henniker.  Never  had  a  better  master  than 
Tom  Henniker,  very  tactful,  nice-feeling  man,  and  had  such 
an  excellent  manner  with  the  farmers Ah  !  here's  Cath- 
cart— and    Knott,     How  d'ye  do,   Knott  ?     Always  glad  to 


THE  NEW  HEAVEN  AND  NEW  EARTH    579 

see  you. — Very  pleasant  meeting  such  a  number  of  friends. 
Very  pleasant  ending  to  a  pleasant  day,  eh,  Shotover  ?  Mrs. 
Cathcart  and  I  were  just  speaking  of  poor  Tom  Henniker* 
You  used  to  hunt  then,  Cathcart.  Do  you  remember  a  run, 
just  about  this  time  of  year  ? — It  may  have  been  a  little  earlier. 
I  tell  you  why.  It  was  the  second  time  the  hounds  met  after 
my  poor  friend  Aldborough's  funeral." 

"  Lord  Aldborough  died  on  the  twenty-seventh  of  Octo- 
ber," John  Knott  said.  The  doctor  limped  in  walking.  He 
suffered  a  sharp  twinge  of  sciatica  and  his  face  lent  itself  to 
astonishing  contortions. 

^^  Plain  man,  Knott,"  Lord  Fallowfeild  commented  in- 
wardly. "  Monstrously  able  fellow,  but  uncommonly  plain. 
So's  Cathcart  for  that  matter.  Well-dressed  man  and  very 
well-preserved  as  to  figure,  but  remarkably  like  an  ourang- 
outang  now  his  eyes  are  sunk  and  his  eyebrows  have  grown 
so  tufty." — Then  he  glanced  anxiously  at  Lord  Shotover  to 
assure  himself  of  the  entire  absence  of  simian  approximations 
in  the  case  of  his  own  family. — "  Oh  !  ah  !  yes,"  he  remarked 
aloud,  and  somewhat  vaguely.  "  Quite  right,  Knott.  Then 
of  course  it  was  earlier.  Record  run  for  that  season.  Seldom 
had  a  better.  We  found  a  fox  in  the  Grimshott  gorse  and 
ran  to  Water  End  without  a  check." 

"And  Lemuel  Image  got  into  the  Tilney  brook,"  Mary 
Ormiston  said,  laughing  a  little. 

"So  he  did  though  !"  Lord  P'allowfeild  rejoined,  beaming. 
And  then  suddenly  his  complacency  suffered  eclipse.  For, 
looking  at  the  speaker,  he  became  disagreeably  aware  of  hav- 
ing, on  some  occasion,  said  something  highly  inconvenient 
concerning  this  lady  to  one  of  her  near  relations.  He  rushed 
into  speech  again  : — "  Loud-voiced,  blustering  kind  of  fellow. 
Image.  I  never  have  liked  Image.  Extraordinary  marriage 
that  of  his  with  a  connection  of  poor  Aldborough's.  Never 
have  understood  how  her  people  could  allow  it." 

"  Oh !  money'll  buy  pretty  well  everything  in  this  world 
except  brains  and  a  sound  liver,"  Dr.  Knott  said,  as  he  low- 
ered himself  cautiously  on  to  the  seat  of  the  highest  chair 
available. 

"  Or  a  good  conscience,"  Mrs.  Cathcart  observed,  with 
mild  dogmatism. 

"I  am  not  altogether  so  sure  about  that,"  the  doctor  an- 


58o  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

swcrcd.  "  I  have  known  the  doubling  of  a  few  charitable 
subscriptions  work  extensive  cures  under  that  head.  Depend 
upon  it  there's  an  immense  deal  more  conscience-money  paid 
every  year  than  ever  finds  its  way  into  the  coffers  of  the 
Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer." 

"  So  there  is  though  !  "  said  Lord  Fallowfeild,  with  an  air 
of  regretful  conviction.  -^  Never  put  it  as  clearly  as  that 
myself,  Knott,  but  must  own  I  am  afraid  there  is." 

Mr.  Cathcart,  who  had  joined  Lord  Shotover  upon  the 
hearth-rug,  here  intervened.  He  had  a  tendency  to  air  local 
grievances,  especially  in  the  presence  of  his  existing  noble 
guest,  whom  he  regarded,  not  wholly  without  reason,  as  some- 
what  lukewarm  and  dilatory  in  questions  of  reform. 

"  I  own  to  sharing  your  dislike  of  Image,"  he  remarked. 
"  He  behaved  in  an  anything  but  straightforward  manner 
about  the  site  for  the  new  cottage  hospital  at  Parson's  Holt." 

"  Did  he,  though  ?  "  said  Lord  Fallowfeild. 

'^  Yes. — I  supposed  it  had  been  brought  to  your  notice." 

Lord  Fallowfeild  fidgeted  a  little. — "  Rather  too  down- 
right, Cathcart,"  he  said  to  himself.  "  Gets  you  into  a  cor- 
ner and  fixes  you.  Not  fair,  not  at  all  fair  in  general  society. 
— Oh  !  ah  ! — cottage  hospital,  yes,"  he  added  aloud.  '''  Very 
tiresome,  vexatious  business  about  that  hospital.  I  felt  it  very 
much  at  the  time." 

"  It  was  a  regular  job,"  Mr.  Cathcart  continued. 

"  No,  not  a  job,  not  a  job,  my  dear  fellow.  Unpleasant 
word  job.  Nothing  approaching  a  job,  only  an  oversight,  at 
most  an  unfortunate  error  of  judgment,"  Lord  Fallowfeild 
protested. — He  glanced  at  his  son  inviting  support,  but  that 
gentleman  was  engaged  in  kindly  conversation  with  bright- 
eyed,  little  Godfrey  Ormiston.  He  glanced  at  Mary — re- 
membered suddenly  that  his  unfortunate  remark  regarding  that 
lady  had  been  connected  with  her  resemblance  to  her  father, 
and  the  latter's  striking  defect  of  personal  beauty.  He 
glanced  at  the  doctor.  But  John  Knott  sat  all  hunched  to- 
gether, watching  him  with  an  expression  rather  sardonic  than 
sympathetic. 

"  There  was  culpable  negligence  somewhere,  in  any  case," 
his  persecutor,  Mr.  Cathcart,  went  on.  "  It  was  obvious 
Image  pressed  that  bit  of  land  at  Waters  End  on  the  com- 
mittee simply  because  no  one  would  buy  it  for  building  pur- 


THE  NEW  HEAVEN  AND  NEW  EARTH  581 

poses.     His  afFectation  of  generosity  as  to  price  was  a  piece 
of  transparent  hypocrisy." 

"  I  suppose  it  was/'  Lord  Fallowfeild  agreed  mildly. 

*^  A  certain  anonymous  donor  had  promised  a  second  five 
hundred  pounds,  if  the  hospital  was  built  on  high  ground  with 
a  subsoil  of  gravel." 

"  It  is  on  gravel,"  put  in  Lord  Fallowfeild  anxiously. 
*'  Saw  it  myself — distinctly  remember  seeing  gravel  when  the 
heather  had  been  pared  before  digging  the  foundations — bright 
yellow  gravel." 

"  Yes,  and  with  a  ten-foot  bed  of  blue  clay  underneath. 
Most  dangerous  soil  going," — this  from  Dr.  Knott,  grimly. 

"  Is  it,  though  ?  "  Lord  Fallowfeild  inquired,  with  an  amia- 
ble effort  tc  welcome  unpalatable,  geological  information. 

"  Not  a  doubt  of  it.  The  surface  water  and  generally  the 
sewage — for  we  are  very  far  yet  from  having  discovered  a 
drain-pipe  which  is  impeccable  in  respect  of  leakage — soak 
through  the  porous  cap  down  to  the  clay  and  lie  there — to  rise 
again  not  at  the  Last  Day  by  any  means,  but  on  the  evening  of 
the  very  first  one  that's  been  hot  enough  to  cause  evaporation.** 

"  Do  they,  though  ?  "  said  Lord  Fallowfeild.  He  was 
greatly  impressed. — "  Capable  fellow,  Knott,  wonderful  thing 
science,"  he  commented  inwardly  and  with  praiseworthy  hu- 
mility. 

But  Mr.  Cathcart  returned  to  the  charge. 

"  The  hospital  was  disastrously  the  loser,  in  any  case,"  he 
remarked.  "  As  a  matter  of  course,  the  conditions  having 
been  disregarded.  Lady  Calmady  withdrew  her  promise  of  a 
second  donation." 

"  Oh  !  ah  !  Lady  Calmady,  really  !  "  the  simple-minded 
nobleman  exclaimed.  "  Very  interesting  piece  of  news  and 
very  generous  intention,  no  doubt,  on  the  part  of  Lady  Cal- 
mady. But  give  you  my  word  Cathcart  that  until  this  mo- 
ment I  had  no  notion  that  the  anonymous  donor  of  whom  we 
heard  so  much  from  one  or  two  members  of  the  committee — • 
heard  too  much,  I  thought,  for  I  dislike  mysteries — foolish, 
unprofitable  things  mysteries — always  turn  out  to  be  nothing 
at  all  in  the  finish — oh  !  ah  !  yes — well,  that  the  anonymous 
donor  was  Lady  Calmady  !  " 

And  thereupon  he  shifted  his  position  with  as  much  assump- 
tion  of   hauteur  as   his    inherent    amiability    permitted.     He 


582  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

turned  his  chair  sideways,  presenting  an  excellently  flat,  if 
somewhat  broad,  scarlet-clad  back  to  his  persecutor  upon  the 
hearth-rug. — "'  Sorry  to  set  a  man  down  in  his  own  house,"  he 
said  to  himself,  "  but  Cathcart's  a  little  wanting  in  taste  some- 
times. He  presses  a  subject  home  too  closely.  And,  if  I 
.,was  bamboozled  by  Image,  it  really  isn't  Cathcart's  place  to 
'remind  me  of  it." 

He  turned  a  worried  and  puckered  countenance  upon  his 
hostess,  upon  Dr.  Knott,  upon  the  drawing-room  door.  In 
the  hall  beyond  one  or  two  guests  still  lingered.  A  lady  had 
just  joined  them,  notably  straight  and  tall,  and  lazily  graceful 
of  movement.  Lord  Fallowfeild  knew  her,  but  could  not  re- 
member her  name. 

"Oh I  ah!  Shotover,"  he  said,  over  his  shoulder,  "I 
don't  want  to  hurry  you,  my  dear  boy,  but  perhaps  it  would 
be  as  well  if  you'd  just  go  round  to  the  stables  and  take  a  look 
at  the  horses." 

Then,  as  the  gentleman  addressed  moved  away,  escorted  by 
his  host  and  followed  in  admiring  silence  by  Godfrey  Ormis- 
ton,  he  repeated,  almost  querulously  : — "  Foolish  things  mys- 
teries. Nothing  in  them,  as  a  rule,  when  you  thrash  them 
out.  Mares'  nests  generally.  And  that  reminds  me,  I  hear 
young  " — Lord  Fallowfeild's  air  of  worry  became  accentuated 
— "  young  Calmady's  got  home  again  at  last." 

"  Yes,"  Mrs.  Cathcart  said,  "  Richard  and  his  mother  have 
been  at  Brockhurst  nearly  a  month." 

"  Have  they,  though  ?  "  exclaimed  Lord  Fallowfeild.  He 
£dgeted.  "  It's  a  painful  subject  to  refer  to,  but  I  should  be 
glad  to  know  the  truth  of  these  nasty,  uncomfortable  rumours 
about  young  Calmady.  You  see  there  was  that  question  of 
his  and  my  youngest  daughter's  marriage.  I  never  approved. 
Shotover  backed  me  up  in  it.  He  didn't  approve  either.  And 
in  the  end  Calmady  behaved  in  a  very  high-minded,  straight- 
forward manner.  Came  to  me  himself  and  exhibited  very 
good  sense  and  very  proper  feeling,  did  Calmady.  Admitted 
his  own  disabilities  with  extraordinary  frankness,  too  much 
frankness,  I  was  inclined  to  think  at  the  time.  It  struck  me 
as  a  trifle  callous,  don't  you  know.  But  afterwards,  when  he 
left  home  in  that  singular  manner  and  went  abroad,  and  we  all 
iost  sight  of  him,  and  heard  how  reckless  he  had  become  and 
all  that,  it  weighed  on  me.     I  give  you  my  word,  Mrs.  Cath- 


THE  NEW  HEAVEN  AND  NEW  EARTH  5»3 

cart,  it  weighed  very  much  on  me.  I've  seldom  been  more 
upset  by  anything  in  my  life  than  I  was  by  the  whole  affair  of 
that  wedding." 

"  I  am  afraid  it  was  a  great  mistake  throughout,"  Mrs^» 
Cathcart  said.  She  folded  her  plump,  white  hands  upon  her 
ample  lap  and  sighed  gently. 

"  Wasn't  it,  though  ?  So  I  told  everybody  from  the  start 
you  know,"  commented  Lord  Fallowfeild. 

"  It  caused  a  great  deal  of  unhappiness." 

"  So  it  did,  so  it  did,"  the  good  man  said,  quite  humbly. 
He  looked  crestfallen,  his  kindly  and  well-favoured  counte- 
nance being  overspread  by  an  expression  of  disarmingly  innocent 
penitence. — "  It  weighed  on  me.  I  should  be  glad  to  be 
able  to  forget  it,  but  now  it's  all  cropping  up  again.  You  see 
there  are  these  rumours  that  poor,  young  Calmady's  gone  under 
very  much  one  way  and  another,  that  his  health's  broken  up 
altogether,  and  that  he  is  shut  up  in  two  rooms  at  Brockhurst 
because — it's  a  terribly  distressing  thing  to  mention,  but  that's 
the  common  talk,  you  know — because  he's  a  little  touched 
here  " — the  speaker  tapped  his  smooth  and  very  candid  fore- 
head— "  a  little  wrong  here  !  Horrible  thing  insanity,"  he  re- 
peated. 

At  this  point  Dr.  Knott,  who  had  been  watching  first  one 
person  present  and  then  another  from  under  his  shaggy  eye- 
brows with  an  air  of  somewhat  harsh  amusement,  roused  him- 
self. 

"  Pardon  me,  all  a  pack  of  lies,  my  lord,"  he  said,  "  and 
stupid  ones  into  the  bargain.  Sir  Richard  Calmady's  as  sane, 
as  you  are  yourself." 

"  Is  he,  though  ?  "  the  other  exclaimed,  brightening  sensibly;. 
'^  Thank  you,  Knott.  It  is  a  very  great  relief  to  me  to  hear 
that." 

"Only  a  man  with  a  remarkably  sound  constitution  could 
have  pulled  round.      I  quite  own  he's  been  very  hard  hit,  and: 
no  wonder.     Typhoid  and  complications " 

"  Ah  !    complications  ?  "    inquired   Lord    Falr^wfeild,    who. 
rarely  let   slip  an   opportunity  of  acquiring  information  of  a 
pathological  description. 

"Yes,  complications.  Of  the  sort  that  are  most  difficult: 
to  deal  with,  emotional  and  moral — beginning  with  his  en-^ 
gagement  to  Lady  Constance 


584  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

"  Oh,  dear  me  !  " — this,  piteously,  from  that  lady's  father. 

"And  ending — his  Satanic  Majesty  knows  where!  I  don't. 
It's  no  concern  of  mine,  nor  of  any  one  else's  in  my  opinion. 
He  has  paid  his  footing — every  man  has  to  pay  it,  sooner  or 
later — to  life  and  experience,  and  personal  acquaintance  with 
the  thou  shalt  not  which,  for  cause  unknown,  goes  for  so 
almighty  much  in  this  very  queer  business  of  human  existence. 
He  has  had  a  rough  time,  never  doubt  that,  with  his  high- 
strung,  arrogant,  sensitive  nature  and  the  dirty  trick  played  on 
him  by  that  heartless  jade.  Dame  Fortune,  before  his  birth. 
For  the  time,  this  illness  had  knocked  the  wind  out  of  him. 
If  he  sulks  for  a  bit,  small  blame  to  him.  But  he'll  come 
round.     He  is  coming  round  day  by  day." 

As  he  finished  speaking  the  doctor  got  on  to  his  feet  some- 
what awkwardly.  His  subject  had  affected  him  more  deeply 
than  he  quite  cared  either  to  own  to  himself  or  to  have  others 
see. 

"  That  plaguy  sciatic  nerve  again  !  "  he  growled. 

Lord  Fallowfeild  had  risen  also. — "Capable  man,  Knott, 
but  rather  rough  at  times,  rather  too  didactic,"  he  said  to  him- 
self, as  he  turned  to  greet  Miss  St.  Quentin.  She  had  strolled 
in  from  the  hall.  Her  charming  face  was  full  of  merriment. 
There  was  something  altogether  gallant  in  the  carriage  of  her 
small  head. 

"  I  was  so  awfully  glad  to  see  Lord  Shotover !  "  she  said,  as 
she  gave  her  hand  to  that  gentleman's  father.  "  It's  an  age 
since  he  and  I  have  met." 

"Very  pleasant  hearing,  my  dear  young  lady,  for  Shotover, 
if  he  was  here  to  hear  it  I  Lucky  fellow,  Shotover." — The 
kindly  nobleman  beamed  upon  her.  He  was  nothing  if  not 
chivalrous.  Mentally,  all  the  same,  he  was  much  perplexed. 
**  Of  course,  I  remember  who  she  is.  But  I  understood  it 
was  Ludovic,"  he  said  to  himself.  "  Made  sure  it  was 
Ludovic.  Uncommonly  attractive,  high-bred  woman.  Very 
•striking  looking  pair,  she  and  Shotover.  Can't  fancy  Shotover 
settled  though.  Say  she's  a  lot  of  money.  Wonder  whether 
it  is  Shotover? — Uncommonly  fine  run,  best  run  we've  had 
for  years,"  he  added  aloud.  "  Pity  you  weren't  out.  Miss  St. 
Quentin. — Well,  good-bye,  Mrs.  Cathcart.  I  must  be  going. 
I  am  extremely  grateful  for  all  your  kindness  and  hospitality. 
It  is  seldom  I  have  the  chance  of  meeting  so  many  friends 


THE  NEW  HEAVEN  AND  NEW  EARTH    585 

this  side  of  the  country. — Good-day  to  you,  Knott — good- 
bye, Miss  St.  Quentin. — Wonder  if  I'd  better  ask  her  to 
Whitney,"  he  thought,  "on  the  chance  of  its  being  Shotover.? 
Eetter  sound  him  hrst  though.  Never  let  a  man  in  for  a 
woman  unless  you've  very  good  reason  to  suppose  he  vi^ants 
her." 

Honoria,  meanwhile,  thrusting  her  hands  into  the  pockets 
of  her  long,  fur-lined,  tan,  cloth,  driving-coat  sat  down  on 
the  arm  of  Mary  Ormiston's  flovi^ery-patterned,  chintz- 
covered  chair. 

"  I  left  you  all  in  a  state  of  holy  peace  and  quiet,"  she 
said,  smiling,  "  and  a  fine  show^  you've  got  on  hand  by  the 
time  I  come  back." 

''  They  ran  across  the  ten-acre  field  and  killed  in  the  shrub- 
bery," Mrs.  Ormiston  put  in. 

John  Knott  limped  forward.  He  stood  with  his  hands  be- 
hind him  looking  down  at  the  two  ladies.  Some  months  had 
elapsed  since  he  and  Miss  St.  Quentin  had  met.  He  was  very 
fond  of  the  young  lady.  It  interested  him  to  meet  her  again, 
Honoria  glanced  up  at  him  smiling. 

"  Have  you  been  out  too  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it.  I'm  too  busy  mending  other  people's 
brittle  anatomy  to  have  time  to  risk  breaking  any  part  of  my 
own.  I'm  ugly  enough  already.  No  need  to  make  me 
juglier.  I  came  here  for  the  express  purpose  of  calling  on 
you." 

*^You  saw  Katherine  ?"  Mary  asked. 

"  Oh  yes  !  I  saw  Cousin  Katherine." 

"  How  is  she  ?  " 

"  An  embodiment  of  faith,  hope,  and  charity,  as  usual,  but 
with  just  that  pinch  of  malice  thrown  in  which  gives  the  com- 
pound a  flavour.  In  short,  she  is  enchanting.  And  then  she 
looks  so  admirably  well." 

'^  That  six  months  at  sea  was  a  great  restorative,"  Mary 
remarked. 

"  Yet  it  really  is  rather  wonderful  when  you  consider  the 
state  she  was  in  before  we  went  to  you  at  Ormiston,  and 
how  frightened  we  were  at  her  undertaking  the  journey  to 
Naples." 

"  Her  affections  are  satisfied,"  Dr.  Knott  said,  and  his  loose 
lips  worked  mto  a  smile,  half  sneering,  half  tender.     "  I  am 


586  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

an  old  man,  and  I  have  had  a  good  lot  to  do  with  women — at 
second  hand.  Feed  their  hearts,  and  the  rest  of  the  mechanism 
runs  easy  enough.  Anything  short  of  organic  disease  can  be 
cured  by  that  sort  of  nourishment.  Even  organic  disease  can 
be  arrested  by  it.  And  what's  more,  I  have  known  disease 
develop  in  an  apparently  perfectly  healthy  subject  simply  be- 
cause the  heart  was  starved.  Oh  !  I  tell  you,  you're  marvel- 
ous beings." 

"  And  yet  you  know  I  feel  so  abominably  sold,"  Honoria 
declared,  "  when  I  consider  the  way  in  which  we  all — Roger, 
Mr.  Quayle,  and  I — acted  bodyguard,  attended  Cousin  Kath- 
erine  to  Naples,  wrapped  her  in  cotton  wool,  dear  thing, 
sternly  determined  to  protect  her  at  all  costs  and  all  hazards 
from — well,  I  am  ashamed  to  say  I  had  no  name  bad  enough 
at  that  time  for  Richard  Calmady !  And  then  this  very 
person,  whom  we  regarded  as  her  probable  destruction,  proves 
to  be  her  absolute  salvation,  while  she  proceeds  to  turn  the 
tables  upon  us  in  the  smartest  fashion  imaginable.  She  showed 
us  the  door  and  entreated  us,  in  the  most  beguiling  manner,  to 
return  whence  we  came  and  leave  her  wholly  at  the  mercy  of 
the  enemy.  I  was  furious  " — Miss  St.  Quentin  laughed — 
''  downright  furious  !  And  Roger's  temper,  for  all  his  high- 
mightiness,  was  a  thing  to  swear  at,  rather  than  swear  by,  the 
morning  he  and  I  left  Naples.  With  the  greatest  difficulty  we 
persuaded  her  even  to  keep  Clara.  She  had  a  rage,  dear  thing, 
for  getting  rid  of  the  lot  of  us.  Oh  !  we  had  a  royal  skirmish 
and  no  mistake." 

"  So  Roger  told  me." 

Honoria  stretched  herself  a  little,  lolled  against  the  back  of 
the  chair,  steadying  herself  by  laying  one  hand  affectionately  on 
the  other  woman's  shoulder.  And  John  Knott,  observing 
her,  noted  not  only  her  nonchalant  and  almost  boyish  grace, 
but  a  swift  change  in  her  humour  from  light-hearted  laughter 
to  a  certain,  and  as  he  fancied,  half-unwilling  enthusiasm. 

"  But  to-day,"  she  went  on,  ^^  when  Cousin  Katherine  told 
me  about  it,  I  confess  the  whole  situation  laid  hold  of  me.  I 
could  not  help  seeing  it  must  have  been  finely  romantic  to  go 
off  like  that — -those  two  alone — caring  as  she  cares,  and  after 
the  long  separation.  It  sounds  like  a  thing  in  some  Elizabethan 
ballad.  There's  a  rhythm  in  it  all  which  stirs  one's  blood. 
She  says  the  yacht's  crew  were  delightful  to  her,  and  treated 


THE  NEW  HEAVEN  AND  NEW  EARTH  587 

Tier  as  a  queen.  One  can  fancy  that — the  stately,  lovely 
queen-mother,  and  that  strange  only  son  ! — They  called  in  at 
the  North  African  ports,  and  at  Gib  and  Madeira,  and  the  Cape 
de  Verds,  and  then  ran  straight  for  Rio.  Then  they  steamed 
up  the  coast  to  Pernambuco,  and  on  to  the  West  Indies. 
Richard  never  went  ashore.  Cousin  Katherine  only  once  or 
twice.  But  they  squattered  about  in  the  everlasting  summer 
of  tropic  harbours,  fringed  with  palms  and  low,  dim,  red- 
roofed,  tropic  houses — just  sampled  it  all,  the  colour,  and 
light,  and  beauty,  and  far  awayness  of  it — and  then,  when  the 
fancy  took  them,  got  up  steam  and  slipped  out  again  to  sea. 
And  the  name  of  the  yacht  is  the  Reprieve,  That's  in  the 
picture,  isn't  it  ?  " 

Honoria  paused.  She  leaned  forward,  her  chin  in  her 
hands,  her  elbows  on  her  knees.  She  looked  up  at  John  Knott, 
and  there  was  a  singular  expression  in  her  clear  and  serious 
€yes. 

"  I  used  to  pity  Cousin  Katherine,"  she  said.  ''  I  used  to 
break  my  heart  over  her.  And  now — now,  upon  my  word,  I 
believe  I  envy  her. — And  see  here.  Dr.  Knott,  she  has  asked 
me  to  go  on  to  Brockhurst  from  here.  It  seems  that  though 
Richard  refuses  to  see  any  one,  except  you  of  course,  and  Julius 
March,  he  fusses  at  his  mother  being  so  much  alone.  What 
ought  I  to  do  ?  I  feel  rather  uncertain.  I  have  fought  him, 
I  own  I  have.  We  have  never  been  friends,  he  and  I.  He 
doesn't  like  me.  He's  no  reason  to  like  me — anything  but ! 
What  do  you  say  ?     Shall  I  refuse  or  shall  I  go  ?  " 

And  the  doctor  reflected  a  little,  drawing  his  great,  square 
hand  down  over  his  mouth  and  heavy,  bristly  chin. 

"  Yes,  go,"  he  answered.  "  Go  and  chance  it.  Your 
being  at  Brockhurst  may  work  out  in  more  of  good  than  we 
jiow  know." 


588  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 


CHAPTER  V 

TELLING   HOW   DICKIE    CAME    TO    UNTIE     A    CERTAIN     TAG    OF 
RUSTY,    BLACK    RIBBON 

'VT^ET,  as  those  gray,  midwinter  weeks  went  on  to  Christ- 
mas,  and  the  coming  of  the  New  Year,  it  became  un- 
deniable there  was  that  in  the  aspect  of  affairs  at  Brockhurst 
which  might  very  well  provoke  curious  comment.  For  the 
rigour  of  Richard  Calmady's  self-imposed  seclusion,  to  which 
Miss  St.  Quentin  had  made  allusion  in  her  conversation  with 
Dr.  Knott,  was  not  relaxed.  Rather,  indeed,  did  it  threaten 
to  pass  from  the  accident  of  a  first  return,  after  long  absence 
and  illness,  into  a  matter  of  fixed  and  accepted  habit.  For 
those  years  of  lonely  wandering  and  spasmodic  rage  of  livings 
finding  their  climax  in  deepening  disappointment,  disillusion,, 
and  the  shock  of  rudely  inflicted  insult  and  disgrace,  had  pro- 
duced in  Richard  a  profound  sense  of  alienation  from  society 
and  from  the  amenities  of  ordinary  intercourse.  Since  he  wa& 
apparently  doomed  to  survive,  he  would  go  home — but  go 
home  very  much  as  some  trapped  or  wounded  beast  crawls 
back  to  hide  in  its  lair.  He  was  master  in  his  own  house,  at 
least,  and  safe  from  intrusion  there.  The  place  offered  the 
silent  sympathy  of  things  familiar,  and  therefore,  in  a  sensc^ 
uncritical.  It  is  restful  to  look  on  that  upon  which  one  has 
already  looked  a  thousand  times.  And  so,  after  his  reconcilia- 
tion with  his  mother,  followed,  in  natural  sequence,  his  recon- 
ciliation with  Brockhurst.  Here  he  would  see  only  those  who 
loved  him  well  enough — in  their  several  stations  and  degrees 
— to  respect  his  humour,  to  ask  no  questions,  to  leave  him  to 
himself.  Richard  was  gentle  in  manner  at  this  period,  courte- 
ous, humorous  even.  But  a  great  discouragement  was  upon 
him.  It  seemed  as  though  some  string  had  snapped,  leaving 
half  his  nature  broken,  unresponsive,  and  dumb.  He  had  no 
ambitions,  no  desire  of  activities.  Sport  and  business,  were  as 
little  to  his  mind  as  society. 

More  than  this. — At  first  the  excuse  of  fatigue  had  served 


THE  NEW  HEAVEN  AND  NEW  EARTH    589 

him,  but  very  soon  it  came  to  be  a  tacitly  admitted  fact  that 
Richard  did  not  leave  the  house.  Surely  it  was  large  enough, 
he  said,  to  afford  space  for  all  the  exercise  he  needed  ?  Re- 
fusing to  occupy  his  old  suite  of  rooms  on  the  ground-floor, 
he  had  sent  orders,  before  his  arrival,  that  the  smaller  library, 
adjoining  the  Long-Gallery,  should  be  converted  into  a  bed- 
chamber for  him.  It  had  been  Richard's  practice,  when  on 
board  ship,  to  steady  his  uncertain  footsteps,  on  the  slippery 
or  slanting  plane  of  the  deck,  by  the  use  of  crutches.  And 
this  practice  he  in  great  measure  retained.  It  increased  his 
poor  powers  of  locomotion.  It  rendered  him  more  independ- 
ent. Sometimes,  when  secure  that  Lady  Calmady  would  not 
receive  visitors,  he  would  make  his  way  by  the  large  library, 
the  state  drawing-room,  and  stair-head,  to  the  Chapel-Room  and 
sit  with  her  there.  But  more  often  his  days  were  spent  ex- 
clusively in  the  Long-Gallery.  He  had  brought  home  many 
curious  and  beautiful  objects  from  his  wanderings.  He  would 
add  these  to  the  existing  collection.  He  would  examine  the 
books  too,  procure  such  volumes  as  were  needed  to  complete 
any  imperfect  series,  and,  in  the  departments  both  of  science, 
literature,  and  travel,  bring  the  library  up  to  date.  He  would 
devote  his  leisure  to  the  study  of  various  subjects — especially 
natural  science — regarding  which  he  was  conscious  of  a 
knowledge,  deficient,  or  merely  empirical. 

"  I  really  am  perfectly  contented,  mother,"  he  said  to  Lady 
Calmady  more  than  once.  "  Look  at  the  length  and  breadth 
of  the  gallery  !  It  is  as  a  city  of  magnificent  distances,  after  the 
deck  of  the  dear,  old  yacht  and  my  twelve-foot  cabin.  And 
Pm  not  a  man  calculated  to  occupy  so  very  much  space  after 
all  !  Let  me  potter  about  here  with  my  books  and  my  bibelots. 
Don't  worry  about  me,  I  shall  keep  quite  well,  I  promise  you. 
Let  me  hybernate  peacefully  until  spring,  anyhow.  I  have 
plenty  of  occupation,  Julius  is  going  to  amend  the  library 
catalogue  with  me,  and  there  are  those  chests  of  deeds,  and 
order-books,  and  diaries,  which  really  ought  to  be  looked 
over.  As  it  appears  pretty  certain  I  shall  be  the  last  of  the 
race,  it  would  be  only  civil,  I  think,  to  bestow  a  little  of  my 
ample  leisure  upon  my  forefathers,  and  set  down  some  more 
or  less  comprehensive  account  of  them  and  their  doings. 
They  appear  to  have  been  given  to  ratner  dramatic  adventures. 
— Don't  you  worry,  you  dear  sweet !     As  I  say,  let  me  hjr- 


590  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

bernate  until  the  birds  of  passage  come  and  the  young  leaves 
are  green  in  the  spring.  Then,  when  the  days  grow  long  and 
bright,  the  sea  will  begin  to  call  again,  and,  when  it  calls,  you 
and  I  will  pack  and  go/' 

And  Katherine  yielded,  being  convinced  that  Richard  could 
treat  his  own  case  best.  If  healing,  complete  and  radical,  was 
to  be  affected,  it  must  come  from  within  and  not  from  with- 
out. Her  wisdom  was  to  wait  in  faith.  There  was  much 
that  had  never  been  told,  and  never  would  be  told.  Much 
which  had  not  been  explained,  and  never  would  be  explained. 
For,  notwithstanding  the  very  gracious  relation  existing  be- 
tween herself  and  Richard,  Katherine  realised  that  there  were 
blank  spaces  not  only  in  her  knowledge  of  his  past  action,  but 
in  her  knowledge  of  the  sentiments  which  now  animated  him. 
As  from  a  far  country  his  mind,  she  perceived,  often  traveled 
to  meet  hers.  "There  was  a  door  to  which  she  found  no 
key."  But  Katherine,  happily,  could  respect  the  individual- 
ity even  of  her  best  beloved.  Unlike  the  majority  of  her  sex 
she  was  incapable  of  intrusion,  and  did  not  make  affection  an 
excuse  for  familiarity.  Love,  in  her  opinion,  enjoins  obliga- 
tion of  service,  rather  than  confers  rights  of  examination  and 
direction.  She  had  learned  the  condition  in  which  his  serv- 
ants had  found  Richard,  in  the  opera  box  of  the  great  theatre 
at  Naples,  lying  upon  the  floor  unconscious,  his  face  disfig- 
ured, cut,  and  bleeding.  But  what  had  produced  this  condi- 
tion, whether  accident  or  act  of  violence,  she  had  not  learned. 
She  had  also  learned  that  her  niece,  Helen  de  Vallorbes,  had 
^ayed  at  the  villa  just  before  the  commencement  of  Richard's 
illness — he  merely  passing  his  days  there,  and  spending  his 
nights  on  board  the  yacht  in  the  harbour,  where,  no  doubt,  that 
same  illness  had  been  contracted.  But  she  resisted  the  incli- 
nation to  attempt  further  discovery.  She  even  resisted  the  in- 
clination to  speculate  regarding  all  this.  What  Richard  might 
elect  to  tell  her,  that,  and  that  only,  would  she  know,  lest, 
seeking  further,  bitter  and  vindictive  thoughts  should  arise  in 
her  and  mar  the  calm,  pathetic  sweetness  of  the  present  and 
her  deep,  abiding  joy  in  the  recovery  of  her  so-long-lost  de- 
light. She  refused  to  go  behind  the  fact — the  glad  fact  that 
Richard  once  more  was  with  her,  that  her  eyes  beheld  him, 
her  ears  heard  his  voice,  her  hands  met  his.  Every  little  act 
of  thoughtful   care,  every   pretty   word  of  half-playful  afFcc- 


i 


THE  NEW  HEAVEN  AND  NEW  EARTH    591 

tion,  confirmed  her  thankfulness  and  made  the  present  blest. 
Even  this  somewhat  morbid  tendency  of  his  to  shut  himself 
away  from  the  observation  of  all  acquaintance,  conferred  on 
her  such  sweetly  exclusive  rights  of  intercourse  that  she  could 
not  greatly  quarrel  with  his  secluded  way  of  life.  As  to  the 
business  of  the  estate  and  household,  this  had  become  so  much 
a  matter  of  course  to  her  that  it  caused  her  but  small  labour. 
If  she  could  deal  with  it  when  Richard  was  estranged  and  far 
away,  very  surely  she  could  deal  with  it  now,  when  she  had 
but  to  open  the  door  of  that  vast,  silvery-tinted,  pensively 
fragrant,  many-windowed  room,  and  entering,  among  its  many 
strange  and  costly  treasures,  find  him — a  treasure  as  strange, 
and  if  counted  by  her  past  suffering,  as  costly,  as  ever  ravished 
and  tortured  a  woman's  heart. 

And  so  it  came  about  that,  to  such  few  friends  as  she  re- 
ceived, Katherine  could  show  a  serene  countenance.  Shortly 
before  Christmas,  Miss  St.  Quentin  came  to  Brockhurst,  and 
coming  stayed,  adapting  herself  with  ready  tact  to  the  altered 
conditions  of  life  there.  Katherine  found  not  only  pleasure, 
but  support,  in  the  younger  woman's  presence,  in  her  devoted 
yet  unexacting  affection,  in  her  practical  ability,  and  in  the 
sight  of  so  graceful  a  creature  going  to  and  fro.  She  installed 
her  guest  in  the  Gun-Room  suite.  And,  by  insensible  de- 
grees, permitted  Honoria  to  return  to  many  of  her  former  av- 
ocations in  connection  with  the  estate,  so  that  the  young  lady 
took  over  much  of  the  outdoor  business,  riding  forth  almost 
daily,  by  herself  or  in  company  with  Julius  March,  to  super- 
intend matters  of  building  or  repairing,  of  road-mending, 
hedging,  copsing,  or  forestry,  and  not  infrequently  cheering 
Chifney — a  somewhat  sour-minded  man  just  now  and  prickly-- 
tempered,  since  Richard  asked  no  word  of  him  or  of  his 
horses — by  visits  to  the  racing  stables. 

"  I  had  better  step  down  and  have  a  crack  with  the  poor, 
old  dear.  Cousin   Katherine,"   she  would  say,  "  or  those  un 
lucky  little  wretches  of  boys  will  catch  it  double  tides,  which 
really  is  rather  superfluous." 

And  all  the  while,  amid  her  very  varied  interests  and  occu- 
pations, remembrance  of  that  hidden,  twilight  life,  going  for- 
ward up-stairs  in  the  well-known  rooms  which  she  now  never 
entered,  came  to  Honoria  as  some  perpetually  recurrent  and 
mournful  harmony,  in  an  otherwise  not  ungladsome  piece  of 


592  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

music,  might  have  come.  It  exercised  a  certain  dominion 
over  her  mind.  So  that  Richard  Calmady,  though  never  ac- 
tually seen  by  her,  was  never  v^^holly  absent  from  her  thought. 
All  the  orderly  routine  of  the  great  house,  all  the  day's  work 
and  the  sentiment  of  it,  was  subtly  influenced  by  awareness 
of  the  actuality  of  his  invisible  presence.  And  this  affected 
her  strongly,  causing  her  hours  of  repulsion  and  annoyance, 
and  again  hours  of  abounding,  if  reluctant  pity,  when  the  un- 
natural situation  of  this  man — young  as  herself,  endowed  with 
a  fine  intelligence,  an  aptitude  for  affairs,  the  craving  for 
amusement  common  to  his  age  and  class — and  the  pathos  in- 
herent in  that  situation,  haunted  her  imagination.  His  self-in- 
flicted imprisonment  appeared  a  reflection  upon,  in  a  sense  a 
reproach  to,  her  own  freedom  of  soul  and  pleasant  liberty  of 
movement.  And  this  troubled  her.  It  touched  her  pride 
somehow.  It  produced  in  her  a  false  conscience,  as  though 
she  were  guilty  of  an  unkindness,  a  lack  of  considerateness 
and  perfect  delicacy. 

"  Whether  he  behaves  well  or  ill,  whether  he  is  good  or 
bad,  Richard  Calmady  invariably  takes  up  altogether  too  much 
room,"  she  would  tell  herself  half  angrily — to  find  herself  within 
half  an  hour,  under  plea  of  usefulness  to  his  mother,  warmly 
interested  in  some  practical  matter  from  which  Richard  Cal- 
mady would  derive,  at  least  indirectly,  distinct  advantage  and 
benefit ! 

This,  then,  was  the  state  of  affairs  one  Saturday  afternoon 
at  the  beginning  of  February.  With  poor  Dickie  himself  the 
day  had  been  marked  by  abundant  discouragement.  He  was 
well  in  body.  The  restfulness  of  one  quiet,  uneventful  week 
following  another  had  steadied  his  nerves,  repaired  the  waste 
of  fever,  and  restored  his  physical  strength.  But,  along  with 
this  return  of  health  had  come  a  growing  necessity  to  lay  hold 
of  some  idea,  to  discover  some  basis  of  thought,  some  incen- 
tive to  action,  which  should  make  life  less  purposeless  and  un- 
profitable. Richard,  in  short,  was  beginning  to  generate  more 
energy  than  he  could  place.  The  old  order  had  passed  away, 
and  no  new  order  had,  as  yet,  effectively  disclosed  itself.  He 
had  not  formulated  all  this,  or  even  consciously  recognised 
the  modification  of  his  own  attitude.  Nevertheless  he  felt  the 
gnawing  ache  of  inward  emptiness.  It  effectually  broke  up 
the  torpor  which  had  held  him.     It  made  him  very  restless. 


THE  NEW  HEAVEN  AND  NEW  EARTH    593 

It  reawoke  in  him  an  inclination  to  speculation  and  experi- 
ment. 

Snow  had  fallen  during  the  earlier  hours  of  the  day,  and,  the 
surface  of  the  ground  being  frost-bound,  it,  though  by  no 
means  deep,  remained  unmelted.  The  whiteness  of  it,  given 
back  by  the  ceiling  and  pale  paneling  of  walls  of  the  Long- 
Gallery,  notwithstanding  the  generous  fires  burning  in  the  two 
ornate,  high-ranging  chimney-places,  produced,  as  the  day 
waned,  an  effect  of  rather  stark  cheerlessness  in  the  great 
room.  This  was  at  once  in  unison  with  Richard's  somewhat 
bleak  humour,  and  calculated  to  increase  the  famine  of  it. 

All  day  long  he  had  tried  to  stifle  the  cry  of  that  same 
famine,  that  same  hunger  of  unplaced  energy,  by  industrious 
work.  He  had  examined,  noted,  here  and  there  transcribed, 
passages  from  deeds,  letters,  order-books,  and  diaries  offering 
first-hand  information  regarding  former  generations  of  Cal- 
madys.  It  happened  that  studies  he  had  recently  made  in  con- 
temporary science,  specially  in  obtaining  theories  of  biology, 
had  brought  home  to  him  what  tremendous  factors  in  the 
development  and  fate  of  the  individual  are  both  evolution  and 
heredity.  At  first  idly,  and  as  a  mere  pastime,  then  with  in- 
creasing eagerness — in  the  vague  hope  his  researches  might 
throw  light  on  matters  of  moment  to  himself  and  of  personal 
application — he  had  tried  to  trace  out  tastes  and  strains  of 
tendency  common  to  his  ancestors.  But  under  this  head  he 
had  failed  to  make  any  very  notable  discoveries.  For  these 
courtiers,  soldiers,  and  sportsmen  were  united  merely  by  the 
obvious  characteristics  of  a  high-spirited,  free-living  race. 
They  were  raised  above  the  average  of  the  country  gentry, 
perhaps,  by  a  greater  appreciation,  than  is  altogether  common, 
of  literature  and  art.  But  as  Richard  soon  perceived  it  was 
less  any  persistent  peculiarity  of  mental  and  physical  constitu- 
tion, than  a  similarity  of  outward  event  united  them.  The 
perpetually  repeated  chronicle  of  violence  and  accident  which 
he  read,  in  connection  with  his  people,  intrigued  his  reason, 
and  called  for  explanation.  Was  it  possible,  he  began  to  ask 
himself,  that  a  certain  heredity  in  incident,  in  external  happen- 
ing, may  not  cling  to  a  race  ?  That  these  may  not  by  some 
strange  process  be  transmissible,  as  are  traits  of  character, 
temperament,  stature,  colouring,  feature,  and  face  ?  And  if 
this — as  matter  of  speculation   merely — was  the    case,  must 


594  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

there  not  exist  some  antecedent  cause  to  which  could  be 
referred  such  persistent  effect  ?  Might  not  an  hereditary  fate 
in  external  events  take  its  rise  in  some  supreme  moral  or 
spiritual  catastrophe,  some  violation  of  law  ?  The  Greek 
dramatists  held  it  was  so.  The  writers  of  the  Old  Testament 
held  it  was  so,  too. 

Sitting  at  the  low  writing-table,  near  the  blazing  fire,  that 
stark  whiteness  reflected  from  off  the  snow-covered  land  all 
around  him,  Richard  debated  this  point  with  himself.  He  ad- 
mitted the  theory  was  not  scientific,  according  to  the  reason- 
ing of  modern  physical  science.  It  approached  an  outlook 
theological  rather  than  rationalistic,  yet  he  could  not  deny  the 
conception,  admission.  The  vision  of  a  doomed  family  arose 
before  him — starting  in  each  successive  generation  with  bril- 
liant prospects  and  high  hope,  only  to  find  speedy  extinction  in 
some  more  or  less  brutal  form  of  death — a  race  dwindling, 
moreover,  in  numbers  as  the  years  passed,  until  it  found  repre- 
sentation in  a  single  individual,  and  that  individual  maimed, 
and  incomplete  !  Heredity  of  accident,  heredity  of  disaster, 
finding  final  expression  in  himself — this  confronted  Richard. — 
He  had  reckoned  himself,  heretofore,  a  solitary  example  of  ill- 
fortune.  But,  mastering  the  contents  of  these  records,  he 
found  himself  far  from  solitary.  He  merely  participated, 
though  under  a  novel  form,  in  the  unlucky  fate  of  all  the  men 
of  his  race.  And  then  arose  the  question — to  him,  under  exist- 
ing circumstances,  of  vital  importance — what  stood  behind  all 
that — blind  chance,  cynical  indifference,  wanton  and  arbitrary 
cruelty,  or  some  august,  far-reaching  necessity  of,  as  yet,  un- 
satisfied justice  ? 

Richard  pushed  the  crackling,  stiffly-folded  parchments,  the 
letters  frayed  and  yellow  with  age,  the  broken-backed,  dis- 
coloured diaries  and  order-books,  away  from  him,  and  sat,  his 
elbows  on  the  table,  his  chin  in  his  hands^  thinking.  And  the 
travail  of  his  spirit  was  great,  as  it  needs  must  be,  at  times, 
with  every  human  being  who  dares  live  at  first,  not  merely  at 
second  hand — who  dares  attempt  a  real,  and  not  merely  a 
nominal  assent — who  dares  deal  with  earthly  existence,  the 
amazing  problems  and  complexities  of  it,  immediately,  refusing 
to  accept — with  indolent  timidity — tradition,  custom,  hearsay, 
convenience,  as  his  guides. — Oh  !  for  some  sure  answering, 
some  unimpeachable  assurance,  some  revelation  not  relative 


THE  NEW  HEAVEN  AND  NEW  EARTH  59s 

and  symbolic,  but  absolute,  some  declaration  above  all  suspicion 
of  cunningly-devised  opportunism,  concerning  the  dealings  of 
the  unknown  force  man  calls  God,  with  the  animal  man  calls 
man  ! — And  then  Richard  turned  upon  himself  contemptuously. 
For  it  was  childish  to  cry  out  thus.  The  heavens  were  dumb 
above  him  as  the  snow-bound  earth  was  dumb  beneath. 
There  was  no  sign  ! — Never  had  been.  Never  would  be,  save 
in  the  fond  imaginations  of  religious  enthusiasts,  crazed  by 
superstition,  by  austerities,  and  hysteria,  duped  by  ignorance, 
by  hypocrites  and  quacks. 

With  long-armed  adroitness  he  reached  down  and  picked  up 
those  light-made,  stunted  crutches,  slipped  from  his  chair  and 
adjusted  them.  For  a  long  while  he  had  used  them  as  a 
matter  of  course  without  criticism  or  thought.  But  now  they 
produced  in  him  a  swift  disgust.  His  hands,  grasping  the 
lowest  crossbar  of  them,  were  in  such  disproportionate  proxim- 
ity to  the  floor !  For  the  moment  he  was  disposed  to  fling 
them  aside.  Then  again  he  turned  upon  himself  with  scath- 
ing contempt.  For  this  too  was  childish.  What  did  the  use 
of  them  matter,  since,  used  or  not,  the  fact  of  his  crippled 
condition  remained  ?  And  so,  with  a  renewal  of  bitterness 
and  active  rebellion,  lately  unknown  to  him,  he  moved  away 
down  the  great  room — past  bronze  athlete  and  marble  goddess, 
past  oriental  jars,  tall  as  himself,  uplifted  on  the  squat,  carven, 
ebony  stands,  past  strangely-painted,  half-fearful,  lacquer 
cabinets,  past  porcelain  bowls  filled  with  faint  sweetness  of 
dried  rose-leaves,  bay,  lavender,  and  spice,  past  trophies  of 
savage  warfare  and,  hardly  less  savage,  civilised  sport,  towards 
the  wide  mullion-window  of  the  eastern  bay.  But  just  be- 
fore reaching  it,  he  came  opposite  to  a  picture  by  Velasquez, 
set  on  an  easel  across  the  corner  of  the  room.  It  represented 
a  hideous  and  misshapen  dwarf,  holding  a  couple  of  graceful 
greyhounds  in  a  leash — an  unhappy  creature  who  had  made 
sport  for  the  household  of  some  Castilian  grandee,  and  whose 
gorgeous  garments,  of  scarlet  and  gold,  were  ingeniously  de- 
signed so  as  to  emphasise  the  physical  degradation  of  its  con- 
torted person.  Richard  had  come,  of  late,  to  take  a  sombre 
pleasure  in  the  contemplation  of  this  picture.  The  desolate 
eyes,  looking  out  of  the  marred  and  brutal  face,  met  his  own 
with  a  certain  claim  of  kinship.  There  existed  a  tragic  free- 
masonry between  himself  and  thi$  outcasted  being,  begotten  of 


596  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

a  common  knowledge,  a  common  experience.  As  a  boy 
Richard  hated  this  picture,  studiously  avoided  the  sight  of  it. 
It  had  suggested  comparisons  which  wounded  his  self-respect 
too  shrewdly  and  endangered  his  self-security.  He  hated  it 
no  longer,  finding  grim  solace,  indeed,  in  its  sad  society. 

And  it  was  thus,  in  silent  parley  with  this  rather  dreadful 
companion,  as  the  blear  February  twilight  descended  upon  the 
bare,  black  trees  and  snow-clad  land  without,  and  upon  the 
very  miscellaneous  furnishings  of  the  many-windowed  gallery 
within,  that  Julius  March  now  discovered  Richard  Calmady. 
He  had  returned,  across  the  park,  from  one  of  the  quaint  brick- 
and-timber  cottages  just  without  the  last  park  gate,  at  the  end 
of  Sandyfield  Church-lane.  A  labourer's  wife  was  dying, 
painfully  enough,  of  cancer,  and  he  had  administered  the 
Blessed  Sacrament  to  her,  there,  in  her  humble  bedchamber. 
The  august  promises  and  adorable  consolations  of  that  mys- 
terious rite  remained  very  sensibly  present  to  him  on  his  home- 
ward way.  His  spirit  was  uplifted  by  the  confirmation  of  the 
divine  compassion  therein  perpetually  renewed,  perpetually 
made  evident.  And,  it  followed,  that  coming  now  upon  Rich- 
ard Calmady  alone,  here,  in  the  stark,  unnatural  pallor  of  the 
winter  dusk,  holding  silent  communion  with  that  long-ago 
victim  of  merciless  practices  and  depraved  tastes,  not  only 
caused  him  a  painful  shock,  but  also  moved  him  with  fervid 
desire  to  offer  comfort  and  render  help. — Yet,  what  to  say, 
how  to  approach  Richard  without  risk  of  seeming  officious- 
ness  and  consequent  offense,  he  could  not  tell.  The  young 
man's  experiences  and  his  own  were  so  conspicuously  far 
apart.  For  a  moment  he  stood  uncertain  and  silent,  then  he 
said  : — 

"  That  picture  always  fills  me  with  self-reproach." 

Richard  looked  round  with  a  certain  lofty  courtesy  by  no 
means  encouraging.  And,  as  he  did  so,  Julius  March  was 
conscious  of  receiving  a  further,  and  not  less  painful  impres- 
sion. For  Richard's  face  was  very  still,  not  with  the  still- 
ness of  repose,  but  with  that  of  fierce  emotion  held  resolutely 
in  check,  while  in  his  eyes  was  a  desolation  rivalling  that  of 
the  eyes  portrayed  by  the  great  Spanish  artist  upon  the  canvas 
close  at  hand. 

"When  I  first  came  to  Brockhurst,  that  picture  used  to 
hang  in  the  study,"  he  continued,  by  way  of  explanation. 


THE  NEW  HEAVEN  AND  NEW  EARTH  597 

«*  Ah !  I  see,  and  you  turned  it  out ! "  Richard  observed, 
not  without  an  inflection  of  irony. 

**Yes.  In  those  days  I  am  afraid  I  did  not  discriminate 
very  justly  between  refinement  of  taste  and  self-indulgent 
fastidiousness.  While  pluming  myself  upon  an  exalted  standard 
of  sensibility  and  sentiment,  I  rather  basely  spared  myself 
acquaintance  with  that,  both  in  nature  and  in  art,  which  might 
cause  me  distress  or  disturbance  of  thought.  I  was  a  mental 
valetudinarian,  in  short.  I  am  ashamed  of  my  defect  of 
moral  courage  and  charity  in  relation  to  that  picture." 

Richard  shifted  his  position  slightly,  looked  fixedly  at  the 
canvas  and  then  down  at  his  own  hands  in  such  dispropor- 
tionate proximity  to  the  floor. 

"  Oh  !  you  were  not  to  blame,"  he  said.  ''  It  is  obviously 
a  thing  to  laugh  at,  or  run  from,  unless  you  happen  to  have 
received  a  peculiar  mental  and  physical  training.  Anyhow  the 
poor  devil  has  found  his  way  home  now  and  come  into  port 
safely  enough  at  last  ?  " 

He  glanced  back  at  the  picture,  over  his  shoulder,  as  he 
moved  across  the  room. 

"  Perhaps  he's  even  found  a  trifle  of  genuine  sympathy — 
so  don't  vex  your  righteous  soul  over  your  repudiation  of  him, 
my  dear  Julius.  The  lapses  of  the  virtuous  may  make,  in- 
directly, for  good.  And  your  instinct,  after  all,  was  both  the 
healthy  and  the  artistic  one.  Velasquez  ought  to  have  been 
incapable  of  putting  his  talent  to  such  vile  uses,  and  the  first 
comer  with  a  spark  of  true  philanthropy  in  him  ought  to  have 
knocked  that  poor  little  monstrosity  on  the  head." 

Richard  came  to  the  writing-table,  glanced  at  the  papers 
which  encumbered  it,  made  for  an  armchair  drawn  up  beside 
the  fire. 

"Sit  down,  Julius,"  he  said.  "There  is  something  quite 
else  about  which  I  want  to  speak  to  you.  I  have  been  work- 
ing through  all  these  documents,  and  they  give  rise  to  specula- 
tions neither  strictly  scientific  nor  strictly  orthodox,  yet  in- 
teresting all  the  same.  You  are  a  dealer  in  ethical  problems. 
I  wonder  if  you  can  offer  any  solution  of  this  one,  of  which 
the  basis  conceivably  is  ethical.  As  to  these  various  owners 
of  Brockhurst — Sir  Denzil,  the  builder  of  the  house,  is  a 
delightful  person,  and  appears  to  have  prospered  mightily  in 
his  undertakings,  as  so  liberal-minded  and  ingenious  a  gentle- 


598  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

man  had  every  right  to  prosper.  But  after  him — from  the 
time,  at  least,  of  his  grandson,  Thomas — everything  seems  to 
have  gone  to  rather  howling  grief  here.  We  have  nothing 
but  battle,  murder,  and  sudden  death.  These  become  posi- 
tively monotonous  in  the  pertinacity  of  t^eir  repetition.  Of 
course  one  may  argue  that  adventurous  persons  expose  them- 
selves to  an  uncommon  number  of  dangers,  and  consequently 
pay  an  uncommon  number  of  forfeits.  I  dare  say  that  is  the 
reasonable  explanation.  Only  the  persistence  of  the  thing 
gets  hold  of  one  rather.  The  manner  of  their  dying  is  very 
varied,  yet  there  are  two  constant  quantities  in  each  succes- 
sive narrative,  namely,  violence  and  comparative  youth." 

Richard's  speech  had  become  rapid  and  imperative.  Now 
he  paused. 

"  Think  of  my  father's  death,  for  instance  — "  he  said. 

His  narrow,  black  figure  crouched  together,  Julius  March 
knelt  on  one  knee  before  the  fire.  He  held  his  thin  hands 
outspread,  so  as  to  keep  the  glow  of  the  burning  logs  from  his 
face.  He  was  deeply  moved,  debating  a  certain  matter  with 
himself. 

"  To  all  questions  supremely  worth  having  answered,  there 
is  no  answer — I  take  that  for  granted,"  the  young  man  con- 
tinued. "  And  yet  one  is  so  made  that  it  is  impossible  not  to 
go  on  asking.  I  can't  help  wanting  to  get  at  the  root  of  this 
queer  recurrence  of  accident,  and  all  the  rest  of  it,  which 
clings  to  my  people.  I  can't  help  wanting  to  make  out 
whether  there  was  any  psychological  moment  which  deter- 
mined the  future,  and  started  them  definitely  on  the  down- 
grade. What  happened — that's  what  I  want  to  arrive  at — 
what  happened  at  that  moment  ?  Had  it  any  reasonable  and 
legitimate  connection  with  all  which  has  followed  ?  *' 

As  he  held  them  outspread,  between  his  face  and  the  glow- 
ing fire,  Julius  March's  hands  trembled.  He  found  himself 
confronted  by  a  situation  which  he  had  long  foreseen,  long 
and  earnestly  prayed  to  avoid.  The  responsibility  was  so 
great  of  either  giving  or  withholding  the  answer,  as  he  knew 
it,  to  that  question  of  Dickie's.  A  way  of  rendering  possible 
help  opened  before  him.  But  it  was  a  way  beset  with  diffi- 
culties, a  way  at  once  fantastic  and  coarsely  realistic,  a  way 
along  which  the  sublime  and  the  ridiculous  jostled  each  other 
with  somewhat  undignified   closeness  of  association,  a  way 


THE  NEW  HEAVEN  AND  NEW  EARTH    599 

demanding  childlike  faith,  not  to  say  childish  credulity,  coupled 
with  a  great  fearlessness  and  self-abnegation  before  ever  a  man's 
steps  could  be  profitably  set  in  it.  If  presented  to  Richard, 
would  he  not  turn  angrily  from  it  as  an  insult  offered  to  his 
intellect  and  his  breeding  alike  ?  Indeed,  the  hope  of  effect- 
ing good  showed  very  thin.  The  danger  of  provoking  evil 
bulked  very  big.  What  was  his  duty  ?  He  suffered  an  agony 
of  indecision.  And  again  with  a  slight  inflection  of  mockery 
in  his  tone,  Richard  spoke. 

''  All  blind  chance,  Julius  ?  I  declare  I  get  a  little  weary 
of  this  Deity  of  yours.  He  neglects  his  business  so  fla- 
grantly. He  really  is  rather  scandalously  much  of  an  absentee. 
And  He  would  be  so  welcome  if  He  would  condescend  to 
deal  a  trifle^  more  openly  with  one,  and  satisfy  one's  intelli- 
gence and  moral  sense.  If,  for  instance.  He  would  afford  me 
some  information  regarding  this  same  psychological  moment 
which  I  need  so  badly  just  now  as  a  peg  to  hang  a  theory  of 
casualty  upon.  I  am  ambitious — as  much  in  the  interests  of 
His  reputation  as  in  those  of  my  own  curiosity — to  get  at  the 
logic  of  the  affair,  to  get  at  the  why  and  wherefore  of  it,  and 
lay  my  finger  on  the  spot  where  differentiation  sets  in." 

Julius  March  stood  upright.  Richard's  scorn  hurt  him.  It 
also  terminated  his  indecision.  For  a  little  space  he  looked 
out  into  the  stark  whiteness  of  the  snowy  dusk,  and  then 
down  at  the  young  man,  leaning  back  in  the  low  chair,  there 
close  before  him.  To  Julius'  short-sighted  eyes,  in  the  un- 
certain light,  Dickie's  face  bore  compelling  resemblance  to 
Lady  Calmady's.  This  touched  him  with  the  memory  of 
much,  and  he  went  back  on  the  thought  of  the  divine  com- 
passion, perpetually  renewed,  perpetually  made  evident  in  the 
Eucharistic  Sacrifice.  Man  may  rail,  yet  God  is  strong  and 
faithful  to  bless.  Perhaps  that  way  was  neither  too  fantastic, 
nor  too  humble,  after  all,  for  Richard  to  walk  in. 

"  Has  no  knowledge  of  the  received  legend  about  this  sub-* 
ject  ever  reached  you  ?  " 

"  No — never — -not  a  word." 

"  I  became  acquainted  with  it  accidentally,  long  ago,  before 
your  birth.  It  is  inadmissible,  according  to  modern  canons  of 
thought,  as  such  legends  usually  are.  And  events,  subsequent 
to  my  acquaintance  with  it,  conferred  on  it  so  singular  and 
painful  a  significance  that  I  kept  my  knowledge  to  myself. 


6oo  SIR  RICHARD  GALMADY 

Perhaps  when  you  grew  up  I  ought  to  have  put  you  in  pos* 
session  of  the  facts.     They  touch  you  very  nearly." 

Richard  raised  his  eyebrows. 

"  Indeed,"  he  said  coldly. 

"But  a  fitting  opportunity — at  least,  so  I  judged,  being,  I 
own,  backward  and  reluctant  in  the  matter — never  presented 
itself.  In  this,  as  in  much  else,  I  fear  I  have  betrayed  my 
trust  and  proved  an  unprofitable  servant — if  so  may  God  for- 
give me." 

"  It  would  have  gone  hard  with  Brockhurst  without  you, 
Julius,"  Richard  said,  a  sudden  softening  in  his  tone. 

"  I  will  bring  you  the  documents  the  last  thing  to-night, 
when — when  your  mother  has  left  you.  They  are  best  read» 
perhaps,  in  silence  and  alone." 


CHAPTER  VI 

A   LITANY    OF    THE    SACRED    HEART 

T?  ICHARD  drew  himself  up  on  to  the  wide,  cushioned 
bench  below  the  oriel-window.  The  February  day  was 
windless  and  very  bright.  And  although,  in  sheltered,  low- 
lying  places,  where  the  frost  held,  the  snow  still  lingered,  in 
the  open  it  had  already  disappeared,  and  that  without  unsight- 
liness  of  slush — shrinking  and  vanishing,  cleanly  burned  up 
and  absorbed  by  the  genial  heat.  A  Sabbath-day  restfulness 
held  the  whole  land.  There  was  no  movement  of  labour, 
cither  of  man  or  beast.  And  a  kindred  restfulness  pervaded 
the  house.  The  rooms  were  vacant.  None  passed  to  and 
fro.  For  it  so  happened  that  good  Mr.  Caryll's  successor,  the 
now  rector  of  Sandyfield,  had  been  called  away  to  deliver 
certain  charity  sermons  at  Westchurch,  and  that  to-day  Julius 
March  officiated  in  his  stead.  Therefore  Lady  Calmady  and 
Miss  St.  Quentin,  and  the  major  part  of  the  Brockhurst 
household,  had  repaired  by  carriage  or  on  foot  to  the  little, 
squat,  red-brick,  Georgian  church  whose  two  bells  rang  out  so 
friendly  and  fussy  an  admonition  to  the  faithful  to  gather 
within  its  walls. 

Richard  had  the  house  to  himself.     And  this  accentuation 


THE  NEW  HEAVEN  AND  NEW  EARTH    6oi 

of  solitude,  combined  with  wider  space  wherein  he  could 
range  without  fear  of  observation,  was  far  from  unwelcome  to 
him.  Last  night  he  had  untied  the  tag  of  rusty,  black  ribbon 
binding  together  the  packet  of  tattered,  dog's-eared,  little 
chap-books  which  for  so  long  had  reposed  in  the  locked 
drawer  of  Julius  March's  study  table  beneath  the  guardianship 
of  the  bronze  pieta.  With  very  conflicting  feelings  he  had 
mastered  the  contents  of  those  same  untidy,  little  volumes,  and 
learned  the  sordid,  and  probably  fabulous,  tale  set  forth  in  them 
in  meanest  vehicle  of  jingling  verse.  Vulgarly  told  to  catch 
the  vulgar  ear,  pandering  to  the  popular  superstitions  of  a  some- 
what ignoble  age,  it  proved  repugnant  enough — as  Julius  had 
anticipated — both  to  Richard's  reason  and  to  his  taste.  The 
critical  faculty  rejected  it  as  an  explanation  absurdly  inade- 
quate. The  cause  was  wholly  disproportionate  to  the  effect, 
as  though  a  mouse  should  spring  forth  a  mountain  instead  of 
a  mountain  a  mouse.  At  least  that  was  how  the  matter 
struck  Richard  at  first.  For  the  story  was,  after  all,  as  he  told 
himself,  but  a  commonplace  of  life  in  every  civilised  com- 
munity. Many  a  man  sins  thus,  and  many  a  woman  suffers, 
and  many  bastards  are  yearly  born  into  the  world  without — 
perhaps  unfortunately — subsequent  manifestation  of  the  divine 
wrath  and  signal  chastisement  of  the  sinner,  or  of  his  legiti- 
mate heirs,  male  or  female.  Affiliation  orders  are  as  well 
known  to  magistrate's  clerks,  as  are  death-certificates  of  chil- 
dren bearing  the  maiden  name  of  their  mother  to  those  of  the 
registrar. 

All  that  Richard  could  dispose  of,  if  with  a  decent  deploring 
of  the  frequency  of  it,  yet  composedly  enough.  But  there 
remained  that  other  part  of  it.  And  this  he  could  not  dispose 
of  so  cursorily.  His  own  unhappy  deformity,  it  is  true,  was 
amply  accounted  for  on  lines  quite  other  than  the  fulfilment 
of  prophecy,  offering,  as  it  did,  example  of  a  class  of  pre- 
natal accidents  which,  if  rare,  is  still  admittedly  recurrent  in 
the  annals  of  obstetrics  and  embryology.  Nevertheless,  the 
foretelling  of  that  strange  Child  of  Promise,  whose  outward 
aspect  and  the  circumstances  of  whose  birth — as  set  forth  in 
the  sorry  rhyme  of  the  chap-book — bore  such  startling  re- 
semblance to  his  own,  impressed  him  deeply.  It  astonished, 
it,  in  a  sense,  appalled  him.  For  it  came  so  very  near.  It 
looked  him  so  insistently  in  the  face.     It  laid  strong  hands  on 


6o2  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

him  from  out  the  long  past,  claiming  him,  associating  itself 
imperatively  with  him,  asserting,  whether  he  would  or  no,  the 
actuality  and  inalienability  of  its  relation  to  himself.  Science 
might  pour  scorn  on  that  relation,  exposing  the  absurdity  of  it 
both  from  the  moral  and  physical  point  of  view.  But  senti- 
ment held  other  language.  And  so  did  that  nobler  morality 
which  takes  its  rise  in  considerations  spiritual  rather  than 
social  and  economic,  and  finds  the  origins  and  ultimates,  alike, 
not  in  things  seen  and  temporal,  but  in  things  unseen  and 
eternal — things  which,  though  they  tarry  long  for  accomplish- 
ment, can  neither  change,  nor  be  denied,  nor,  short  of  ac- 
complishment, can  pass  away. 

And  it  was  this  aspect  of  the  whole,  strange  matter — the 
thought,  namely,  of  that  same  Child  of  Promise  who,  predes- 
tined to  bear  the  last  and  heaviest  stroke  of  retributive  justice, 
should,  bearing  it  rightly,  bring  salvation  to  his  race — which 
obtained  with  Dickie  on  the  fair  Sunday  morning  in  question. 
It  refused  to  quit  him.  It  affected  him  through  all  his  being. 
It  appealed  to  the  poetry,  the  idealism,  of  his  nature — a  poetry 
and  idealism  not  dead,  as  he  had  bitterly  reckoned  them, 
though  sorely  wounded  by  ill-living  and  the  disastrous  issues 
of  his  passion  for  Hele-n  de  Vallorbes.  He  seemed  to  appre- 
hend the  approach  of  some  fruitful,  far-ranging,  profoundly- 
reconciling  and  beneficent  event.  As  in  the  theatre  at  Naples, 
when  Morabita  sang,  and  to  his  fever-stricken,  brain-sick 
fancy  the  dull-coloured  multitude  in  the  parterre  murmured, 
buzzing  remonstrant  as  angry  swarming  bees,  so  now  a  cer- 
tain exaltation  of  feeling,  exaltation  of  hope,  came  upon  him. 
Yet  having  grown,  through  determined  rebellion  and  unlovely 
experience,  not  a  little  distrustful  of  all  promise  of  good,  he 
turned  on  himself  bitterly  enough,  asking  if  he  would  never 
learn  to  profit  by  hardly-bought,  practical  knowledge  ?  If  he 
would  never  contrive  to  cast  the  simpleton  wholly  out  of  him  ? 
He  had  been  fooled  many  times,  fooled  there  at  Naples  to  the 
point  of  unpardonable  insult  and  degradation.  What  so 
probable  as  that  he  would  be  fooled  again,  now  ? 

And  so,  in  effort  to  shake  off  both  the  dominion  of  un- 
founded hope,  and  the  gnawing  ache  of  inward  emptiness 
which  made  that  hope  at  once  so  cruel  and  so  dear,  as  the 
sound  of  wheels  dying  away  along  the  lime  avenue  assured 
him  that   the   goodly    company    of  church-goers    had,  verily 


THE  NEW  HEAVEN  AND  NEW  EARTH    603 

and  indeed,  departed,  he  set  forth  on  a  pilgrimage  through 
the  great,  silent  house.  Passing  through  the  two  libraries,. 
the  antechamber  and  state  drawing-room — with  its  gilded 
furniture,  fine  pictures  and  tapestries — he  reached  the  open 
corridor  at  the  stair-head.  Here  the  polished,  oak  floor, 
the  massive  balusters,  and  tall,  carven  newel-posts — each 
topped  by  a  guardian  griffin,  long  of  tail,  ferocious  of  beak, 
and  sharp  of  claw — showed  with  a  certain  sober  cheerfulness 
in  the  pleasant  light.  For,  through  all  the  great  windows  of 
the  eastern  front,  the  sun  slanted  in  obliquely.  While  in  the 
Chapel-Room  beyond,  situated  in  the  angle  of  the  house  and 
thus  enjoying  a  southern  as  well  as  eastern  aspect,  Richard 
found  a  veritable  carnival  of  misty  brightness,  so  that  he 
moved  across  to  the  oriel-window — whose  gray,  stone  mullions 
and  carved  transomes  showed  delicately  mellow  of  tone  be- 
tween the  glittering,  leaded  panes — in  a  glory  of  welcoming 
warmth  and  sunlight.  Frost  and  snow  might  linger  in  the 
hollows,  but  here  in  the  open,  on  the  upland,  spring  surely 
had  already  come. 

With  the  help  of  a  brass  ring,  riveted  by  a  stanchion  into 
the  space  of  paneling  below  the  stone  window-sill — placed 
there  long  ago,  when  he  was  a  little  lad,  to  serve  him  in  such 
case  as  the  present — Richard  drew  himself  up  on  to  the  cush- 
ioned bench.  He  unfastened  one  of  the  narrow,  curved,  iron- 
framed  casements,  and,  leaning  his  elbows  on  the  sill,  looked 
out.  The  air  was  mild.  The  smell  of  the  earth  was  sweet, 
with  a  cleanly,  wholesome  sweetness.  The  sunshine  covered 
him.  And  somehow,  whether  he  would  or  no,  hope  re- 
asserted its  dominion,  and  that  exaltation  of  feeling  entered 
into  possession  of  him  once  again,  as  he  rested,  gazing  away 
over  the  familiar  home  scene,  over  this  land,  which,  as  far  as 
sight  carried,  had  belonged  to  his  people  these  many  genera- 
tions, and  was  now  his  own. 

Directly  below,  at  the  foot  of  the  descending  steps  of  the 
main  entrance,  lay  the  square,  red-walled  space  of  gravel  and 
of  turf.  He  looked  at  it  curiously,  for  there,  with  the  maim- 
ing and  death  of  Thomas  Calmady's  bastard,  if  legend  said 
truly,  all  this  tragic  history  of  disaster  had  begun.  There^ 
too,  the  Clown,  race-horse  of  merry  name  and  mournful  mem- 
ory, had  paid  the  penalty  of  wholly  involuntary  transgression 
just  thirty  years  ago.     That  last  was  a  rather  horrible  incident^ 


6o4  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

of  which  Richard  never  cared  to  think.  Chifney  had  told 
him  about  it  once,  in  connection  with  the  parentage  of  Verdi- 
gris— had  told  him  just  by  chance.  To  think  of  it,  even  now, 
made  a  lump  rise  in  his  throat.  Across  the  turf — offering 
<j[uaint  contrast  to  those  somewhat  bloody  memories — the  pea- 
cocks, in  all  their  bravery  of  royal  blue-purple,  living  green 
and  gold,  led  forth  their  sober-clad  mates.  They  had  come 
out  from  the  pepper-pot  summer-houses  to  sun  themselves. 
They  stepped  mincingly,  with  a  worldly  and  disdainful  grace, 
and,  reaching  the  gravel,  their  resplendent  trains  swept  the 
rounded  pebbles,  making  a  small,  dry,  rattling  sound,  which, 
so  deep  was  the  surrounding  quiet,  asserted  itself  to  the  extent 
of  saluting  Dickie's  ears.  Beyond  the  red  wall  the  parallel 
lines  of  the  elm  avenue  swept  down  to  the  blue  and  silver 
levels  of  the  Long  Water,  the  alder  copses  bordering  which 
showed  black-purple,  and  the  reed-beds  rusty  as  a  fox,  against 
thin  stretches  of  still  unmelted  snow.  The  avenue  climbed 
the  farther  ascent  to  the  wide  archway  of  the  red  and  gray 
gate-house,  just  short  of  the  top  of  the  long  ridge  of  bare 
moorland.  The  grass  slopes  of  the  park,  to  the  left,  were 
backed  by  the  dark,  sawlike  edge  of  the  fir  forest,  and  a  soft 
gloom  of  oak  woods,  gray-brown  and  mottled  as  a  lizard's 
belly  and  back,  closed  the  end  of  the  valley  eastward.  On 
the  right  the  terraced  gardens,  with  their  ranges  of  glittering 
conservatories,  fell  away  to  the  sombre  pond  in  the  valley, 
home  of  loudly-discoursing  companies  of  ducks.  The  gentle 
hillside  above  was  clothed  by  plantations,  and  a  grove  of 
ancient  beech  trees,  whose  pale,  smooth  boles  stood  out  from 
among  undergrowth  of  lustrous  hollies  and  the  warm  russet 
of  fallen  leaves.  And  over  it  all  brooded  the  restfulness  of 
the  Sabbath,  and  the  gladness  of  a  fair  and  equal  light. 

And  the  charm  of  the  scene  worked  upon  Richard,  not 
with  any  heat  of  excitement,  but  with  a  temperate  and  reason- 
able grace.  For  the  spirit  of  it  all  was  a  spirit  of  temperance, 
of  moderation,  of  secure  tranquillity — a  spirit  stoic  rather 
than  epicurean,  ascetic  rather  than  hedonic,  yet  generous, 
spacious,  nobly  reasonable,  giving  ample  scope  for  very  sin- 
cere, if  soberly-clad  pleasures,  and  for  activities  by  no  means 
despicable  or  unmanly,  though  of  a  modest,  unostentatious 
sort.  Dickie  had  tried  not  a  few  desperate  adventures,  had 
conformed  his  thought  and  action  to  not  a  few  glaring  pat- 


THE  NEW  HEAVEN  AND  NEW  EARTH  605 

terns,  rushing  to  violences  of  extreme  colour,  extreme  white 
and  black.  All  that  had  proved  preeminently  unsuccessful^ 
a  most  poisonous  harvest  of  Dead  Sea  fruit.  What,  he  began 
to  ask  himself,  if  he  made  an  effort  to  conform  it  to  the 
pattern  actually  presented  to  him — mellow,  sun-visited,  with 
the  brave  red  of  weather  stained  masonry  in  it,  blue  and 
silver  of  water  and  sky,  lustre  of  sturdy  hollies,  as  well  as  the 
solemnity  of  leafless  woods,  finger  of  frost  in  the  hollows, 
and  bleakness  of  snow  ? 

And,  as  he  sat  meditating  thus,  breathing  the  clear  air,  feel- 
ing the  tempered,  yet  genial,  sun-heat,  many  questions  began 
to  resolve  themselves.  He  seemed  to  look,  as  down  a  long,, 
cloudy  vista — beyond  the  tumult  and  unruly  clamour,  the 
wayward  resistance  and  defiant  sinning,  the  craven  complain- 
ings, the  ever-repeated  suspicions  and  misapprehensions  of 
man — away  into  the  patient,  unalterable  purposes  of  God. 
And  looking,  for  the  moment,  into  those  purposes,  he  saw 
this  also — namely,  that  sorrow,  pain,  and  death,  are  sweet  to 
whosoever  dares,  instead  of  fighting  with,  or  flying  from 
them,  to  draw  near,  to  examine  closely,  to  inquire  humbly,, 
into  their  nature  and  their  function.  He  began  to  perceive 
that  these  three  reputed  enemies — hated  and  feared  of  all  men 
— are,  after  all,  the  fashioners  and  teachers  of  humanity,  to 
whom  it  is  given  to  keep  hearts  pure,  godly  and  compassion- 
ate, to  purge  away  the  dross  of  pride,  hardness,  and  arrogance, 
to  break  the  iron  bands  of  ambition,  self-love,  and  vanity,  to 
purify  by  endurance  and  by  charity,  welding  together — as  with 
the  cunning  strokes  of  the  master-craftsman's  hammer — the 
innumerable  individual  atoms  into  a  corporate  whole,  of  fair 
form,  of  supreme  excellence  of  proportion,  the  image  and 
example  of  a  perfect  brotherhood,  of  a  republic  more  firmly 
based  and  more  beneficent  than  even  that  pictured  by  the 
divine  Plato  himself — since  that  was  consolidated  by  exclu- 
sion, this  by  inclusion  and  pacification  of  those  things  which 
men  most  dread. — Perceived  that,  without  the  guiding  and 
chastening  of  these  three  lovely  terrors,  humanity  would,  in- 
deed, wax  wanton,  and  this  world  become  the  merriest  court 
of  hell,  lust  and  corruption  have  it  all  their  own  foul  way, 
the  flesh  triumph,  and  all  bestial  things  come  forth  to  flaunt 
themselves  gaudily,  greedily,  without  remonstrance  and  with- 
out shame   in   the  light  of  day. — Perceived   in  these  three,  a^ 


6o6  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

Trinity  of  Holy  Spirits,  bearing  forever  the  message  of  the 
divine  mercy  and  forgiveness. — Perceived  how,  of  necessity, 
only  the  Man  of  Sorrows  can  truly  be  the  Son  of  God. 

And,  perceiving  all  this,  Richard's  attitude  towards  his  own 
unhappy  deformity  began  to  suffer  modification.  The  sordid, 
yet  extravagant,  chap-book  legend  no  longer  outraged  either 
his  moral  or  his  scientific  sense.  He  recalled  his  emotions  in 
the  theatre  at  Naples  when  Morabita  sang,  remembering  how 
wholly  welcome  had  then  been  to  him  that  imagined  approach- 
ing-act  of  retributive  justice.  He  recalled,  too,  the  going 
forth  of  love  towards  his  supposed  executioners  which  he  had 
experienced,  his  reverence  for,  and  yearning  towards,  the  dull- 
coloured  working-bees  of  the  parterre.  How  he  had  longed 
to  be  at  one  with  them,  partaker  of  their  corporate  action  and 
corporate  strength  !  How  he  had  rejoiced  in  the  conviction 
that  the  final  issues  are  subject  to  their  ruling,  that  the  claims 
of  want  are  stronger  than  those  of  wealth,  that  labour  is  more 
honourable  than  sloth,  intelligence  than  privilege,  liberty  more 
abiding  than  tyranny — the  idea  of  equality,  of  fellowship, 
more  excellent  than  the  aristocratic  idea,  that  of  born  master 
and  of  born  serf!  And  both  that  welcome  of  the  accom- 
plishment of  a  signal  act  of  justice,  and  that  desire  to  partici- 
pate in  the  eternal  strength  of  the  children  of  labour  as 
against  the  ephemeral  and  fictitious  strength  of  the  children 
of  idleness  and  wealth,  found  strange  confirmation  in  the 
chap-book  legend. 

For  it  seemed  to  Richard  that,  taking  all  that  singular  mat- 
ter both  of  prophecy  and  of  cure  simply — as  believers  take 
some  half-miraculous,  scripture  tale — he  had  already,  in  his 
own  person,  in  right  of  the  physical  uncomeliness  of  it,  paid 
part,  at  all  events,  of  the  price  demanded  by  the  Eternal  Jus- 
tice for  his  ancestors'  sinning  and  for  his  own.  It  was  not 
needful  that  the  bees  should  swarm  and  the  dull-coloured  mul- 
titude revenge  itself  on  the  indolent,  full-fed  larvae  peopling 
the  angular  honey-cells,  as  far  as  he,  Richard  Calmady,  was 
concerned.  That  revenge  had  been  taken  long  ago,  in  a  mys- 
terious and  rather  terrible  manner,  before  his  very  birth. 
While,  in  the  stern  denunciation,  the  adhering  curse,  of  the 
outraged  and  so-soon-to-be-childless  mother,  he  found  the  just 
and  age-old  protest,  the  patient  faith  in  the  eventual  triumph 
of  the  proletariat — of  the  defenseless  poor  as  against  the  cal^ 


THE  NEW  HEAVEN  AND  NEW  EARTH    607 

lous  self-seeking  and  sensuality  of  the  securely  guarded  rich. 
By  the  fact  of  his  deformity  he  was  emancipated  from  the  de- 
lusions of  his  class,  was  made  one,  in  right  of  the  suffering 
and  humiliation  of  it,  with  the  dull-coloured  multitudes  whose 
corporate  voice  declares  the  ultimate  verdict,  who  are  the 
architects  and  judges  of  civilisation,  of  art,  even  of  religion, 
even,  in  a  degree,  of  nature  herself.  Salvation,  according  to 
the  sorry  yet  inspiring  rhyme  of  the  chap-book,  was  contin- 
gent upon  precisely  this  recognition  of  brotherhood  with,  and 
practice  of  willing  service  towards,  all  maimed  and  sorrowful 
creatures.  His  America  was  here  or  nowhere,  his  vocation 
clearly  indicated,  his  work  immediate  and  close  at  hand. 

How  the  Eternal  Justice  might  see  fit  to  deal  with  other 
souls,  why  he  had  been  singled  out  for  so  peculiar  and  con- 
spicuous a  fate,  Richard  did  not  pretend  to  say.  All  that  had 
become  curiously  unimportant  to  him.  For  he  had  ceased  to 
call  that  fate  a  cruel  one.  It  had  changed  its  aspect.  It  had 
come  suddenly  to  satisfy  both  his  conscience  and  his  imagina- 
tion. With  a  movement  at  once  of  wonder  and  of  deep- 
seated  thankfulness,  he,  for  the  first  time,  held  out  his  hands 
to  it,  accepting  it  as  a  comrade,  pledging  himself  to  use  rather 
than  to  spurn  it.  He  looked  at  it  steadfastly  and,  so  looking, 
found  it  no  longer  abhorrent  but  of  mysterious  virtue  and 
efficacy,  endued  with  power  to  open  the  gates  of  a  way,  closed 
to  most  men,  into  the  heart  of  humanity,  which,  in  a  sense,  is 
nothing  less  than  the  heart  of  Almighty  God  Himself.  It 
was  as  though,  like  the  saint  of  old,  daring  to  kiss  the  scabs 
and  sores  of  the  leper,  he  found  himself  gazing  on  the  divine 
lineaments  of  the  risen  Christ.  And  this  brought  to  him  a 
sense  of  almost  awed  repose.  It  released  him  from  the  vicious 
circle  of  self,  of  sharp-toothed  disappointment  and  leaden- 
heavy  discouragement,  in  which  he  had  so  long  fruitlessly 
turned.  He  seemed  consciously  to  slough  off  the  foul  and 
ragged  garment  of  the  past  and  all  its  base,  unprofitable  mem- 
ories, as  the  snake  sloughs  off  her  old  skin  in  the  warm  May- 
weather  and  glides  forth,  glittering,  in  a  coat  of  untarnished, 
silver  mail.  The  whole  complexion  of  his  thought  regarding 
litis  personal  disfigurement  was  changed. 

Not  that  he  flattered  himself  the  discomfort,. the  daily  vexa- 
tion and  impediment  of  it,  had  passed  away.  On  the  con- 
tr^rv  these  very  actually  remained,  and  would  remain  to  the 


6o8  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

end.  And  the  consequences  they  entailed  remained  also,  the 
restrictions  and  deprivations  they  inflicted.  They  put  many 
things,  dear  to  every  sane  and  healthy-minded  man,  hopelessly 
out  of  his  reach,  very  much  upon  the  shelf.  Love  and  mar- 
riage were  shelved  thus,  in  his  opinion,  let  alone  lesser  and 
more  ephemeral  joys.  Only  the  ungrudging  acceptance  of 
the  denial  of  those  joys,  vi^hether  small  or  great,  was  a  vital 
part  of  that  idea  to  the  evolution  of  which  he  now  dedicated 
himself — that  Whole  which,  in  process  of  its  evolution,  would 
make  for  a  sober  and  temperate  well-being,  formed  on  the 
pattern,  sober  yet  nobly  spacious,  cleanly,  and  wholesome,  of 
the  sun-visited  landscape  there  without.  He  had  just  got  to 
discipline  himself  into  the  harmony  with  the  idea  newly  re- 
vealed to  him.  And  that,  as  he  told  himself,  not  without  a 
sense  of  the  humour  of  the  situation  in  certain  aspects,  meant 
in  more  than  one  department,  plenty  of  work ! — And  he  had 
to  spend  himself  and  go  on,  through  good  report  and  ill, 
■through  gratitude  and,  if  needs  be,  through  abuse  and  detrac- 
tion, still  spending  himself,  actively,  untiringly,  in  the  effort 
to  make  some  one  person — it  hardly  mattered  whom,  but  for 
choice,  those  who  like  himself  had  been  treated  unhandsomely 
by  nature  or  by  accident — just  a  trifle  happier  day  by  day. 

But,  while  Richard  rested  thus  in  the  quiet  sunshine,  he  lost 
count  of  time.  High-noon  came  and  passed,  finding  and 
leaving  him  in  absorbed  contemplation  of  his  own  thought. 
At  last  a  barking  of  dogs,  and  the  sound  of  wheels  away  on 
the  north  side  of  the  house,  broke  up  the  silence.  Then  a 
faint  echo  of  voices,  a  boy's  laughter  in  the  great  hall  below. 
Then  footsteps,  which  he  took  to  be  Lady  Calmady's,  coming 
lightly  up  the  grand  staircase.  At  the  stair-head  those  foot- 
steps paused  for  a  little  space,  as  though  in  indecision  whither 
to  turn.  And  Richard,  pushed  by  an  impulse  of  considerate- 
ness  somewhat,  it  must  be  owned,  new  to  him,  called  : — 
"  Mother,  is  that  you  ?  Do  you  want  me  ?  I'm  here." 
Whereat  the  footsteps  came  forward,  in  at  the  open  door 
and  through  the  soft  glory  of  the  all-pervading  sunshine,  with 
an  effect  of  gentle  urgency  and  haste.  Katherine's  gray,  silk 
pelisse  was  unfastened,  showing  the  grey,  silk  gown,  its  float- 
ing ribbons,  pretty  frills  and  flounces,  beneath.  Every  detail 
of  her  dress  was  very  fresh  and  very  finished,  a  demure  dain- 
tiness  in   it,  from  the  topmost,  gray  plume  and  upstanding. 


THE  NEW  HEAVEN  AND  NEW  EARTH  609 

velvet  bow  of  her  bonnet  to  the  pretty  shoes  upon  her  feet. 
Along  with  a  lace  handkerchief  and  her  church  books,  she 
carried  a  bunch  of  long-stalked  violets.  Her  face  was  deli- 
cately flushed,  a  great  surprise,  touching  upon  anxiety,  temper- 
ing the  quick  pleasure  of  her  expression. 

"  My  dearest,"  she  said,  "  this  is  as  delightful  as  it  is  un- 
expected.    What  brings  you  here  ?  " 

And  Richard  smiled  at  her  without  reserve,  no  longer  as 
though  putting  a  force  upon  himself  or  of  set  purpose,  but 
naturally,  spontaneously,  as  one  who  entertains  pleasant 
thoughts.  He  took  her  hand  and  kissed  it  with  a  certain 
courtliness  and  reverent  fervour. 

"I  came  to  look  for  something  here,"  he  said,  "which  I 
have  looked  for  at  many  times  and  in  very  various  places,  yet 
never  somehow  managed  to  find." 

But  Katherine,  at  once  tenderly  charmed  and  rendered  yet 
more  anxious  by  a  quality  in  his  manner  and  his  speech  un- 
familiar to  her,  the  purport  of  which  she  failed  at  once  to 
gauge,  answered  him  literally. 

"  My  dearest,  why  didn't  you  tell  me  ?  I  would  have 
looked  for  it  before  1  went  to  church,  and  saved  you  the 
trouble  of  the  journey  from  the  gallery  here." 

"  Oh !  the  journey  wasn't  bad  for  me,  I  rather  enjoyed  it," 
Dickie  said.  "  And  then  to  tell  you  the  truth,  you've  spent 
the  better  part  of  your  dear  life  in  looking  for  that  same 
something  which  I  could  never  manage  to  find !  Poor,  sweet 
mother,  no  thanks  to  me,  so  far,  that  you  haven't  utterly  worn 
yourself  out  in  the  search  for  it." — He  paused,  and  gazed 
away  out  of  the  open  casement. — ''  But  I  have  a  good  hope 
that's  all  over  and  done  with  now,  and  that  at  last  I've  found 
the  thing  myself." 

And  Katherine,  still  charmed,  still  anxious,  looked  down  at 
him  wondering,  for  there  was  a  perceptible  undercurrent  of 
emotion  beneath  the  lightness  of  his  speech. 

"  However,  all  that  will  keep,"  he  continued. — "  How  did 
you  enjoy  your  church  ?  Did  dear  old  Julius  distinguish 
himself?      How  did  he  preach  ?  " 

And  Katherine,  still  wondering,  again  answered  literally. 

"  Very  beautifully,"  she  said,  "  with  an  unusual  force  and 
pathos.  He  took  the  congregation  not  a  little  by  storm.  He 
fairly  carried   us  away.     He  was  eloquent,  and  that  with  a 


6 10  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

simplicity  which  made  one  question  whether  he  did  not  speak 
out  of  some  pressing  personal  experience." — Katherine's 
manner  was  touched  by  a  pretty  edge  of  pique. — "  Really  I 
believed  I  knew  all  about  Julius  and  his  doings  by  this  time^ 
but  it  seems  I  don't !  I  think  I  must  find  out.  It  would  vex 
me  that  anything  should  happen  in  which  he  needed  sympathy, 
and  that  I  did  not  oflFer  it. — His  subject  was  the  answer  to 
prayer  and  the  fulfilment  of  prophecy — and  how  both  come, 
come  surely  and  directly,  yet  often  in  so  different  a  form  to 
that  which,  in  our  narrowness  of  vision  and  dulness  of  sense, 
we  anticipate,  that  we  fail  to  recognise  either  the  answer  or  the 
fulfilment,  and  so  miss  the  blessing  they  must  needs  bring, 
and  which  is  so  richly,  so  preciously,  ours  if  we  had  but  the 
wit  to  understand  and  lay  hold  of  it." 

Whereupon  Richard  smiled  again. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "  very  probably  Julius  did  speak  out  ot 
personal  experience,  or  rather  vicarious  experience.  How-- 
ever,  I  don't  think  he  need  worry  this  time,  at  least  I  hope 
not.  The  answer  to  prayer  and  fulfilment  of  prophecy,  when 
they're  good  enough  to  come  along,  don't  always  get  the  cold 
shoulder." — Then  his  expression  changed,  hardened  a  little, 
his  lips  growing  thin  and  his  jaw  set. — "  Look  here,  mother," 
he  added,  "  I  think  perhaps  I  have  been  rather  playing  the  fool 
lately,  since  we  came  home.  I  propose  to  take  to  the  ordi- 
nary habits  of  civilised.  Christian  man  again.  If  it  doesn't 
bother  you,  would  you  kindly  let  the  servants  know  that  I'm 
coming  down  to  luncheon  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  my  dearest,  how  stupid  of  me,  I'm  so  grieved  !  '' 
Katherine  cried.  She  sat  down  beside  him  on  the  cushioned 
bench,  dropping  service  books,  handkerchief,  and  violets,  in 
the  extremity  of  her  gentle  and  apologetic  distress. — "  It 
never  occurred  to  me  that  you  might  like  to  come  down. 
The  Newlands  people  came  over  to  church,  and  I  brought 
Mary  and  the  two  boys  back.  Godfrey  is  over  from  Eton  for 
the  Sunday,  and  little  Dick  has  had  a  cold  and  has  not  gone 
back  to  school  yet.  What  can  we  do  ?  It  would  be  lovely 
to  have  you,  and  yet  I  don't  quite  know  how  I  can  send  them 
away  again." 

"  But  why  on  earth  should  they  be  sent  away  ?  "  Richard 
said,  touched  and  amused  by  her  earnestness.  "  Mary's 
always  a  dear.     And  I've   been   thinking   lately   I   shouldn't 


THE  NEW  HEAVEN  AND  NEW  EARTH  6u 

mind  seeing  something  of  that  younger  boy.  He  is  my  god^ 
son,  isn't  he  ?  And  Knott  tells  me  he  is  curiously  like  you 
and  Uncle  Roger.  Yuu  see  it's  about  time  to  select  an  heir- 
apparent  for  Brockhurst.  Luckily  I've  a  free  hand.  My 
life's  the  last  in  the  entail." 

Then,  looking  at  him,  Lady  Calmady's  lips  trembled  a 
little.  Health  had  returned  and  with  it  his  former  good  looks, 
but  matured,  spiritualised,  as  it  seemed  to  her  just  now.  The 
livid  line  of  the  scar  had  died  out  too,  and  was  nearly  gone. 
And  all  this,  taken  in  connection  with  his  words  just  uttered, 
affected  her  to  so  great  and  poignant  a  love,  so  great  and 
poignant  a  fear  of  losing  him,  that  she  dared  not  trust  herself 
to  make  any  comment  on  those  same  words  lest  the  flood- 
gates of  emotion  should  be  opened  and  she  should  lose  her 
self-control. 

"  Very  well,  Dickie,"  she  said,  bowing  her  head. — Then 
she  added  quickly,  with  a  little  gasp  of  renewed  distress  and 
apology  : — "  But — but,  oh  !  dear  me,  Honoria  is  here  too  !  " 

Whereat  Richard  laughed  outright.  He  could  not  help  it, 
she  was  so  vastly  engaging  in  her  distress. 

"  All  right,"  he  said,  ^^  I  am  equal  to  accepting  Honoria  St» 
Quentin  into  the  bargain.  In  short,  mother  dear,  I  take  over 
the  lot,  and  if  anybody  else  turns  up  between  now  and  two 
o'clock  I'll  take  them  over  as  well. — Why,  why,  you  dear 
sweet,  don't  look  so  scared !  There's  nothing  to  trouble 
about.  I'm  not  too  good  to  live,  never  fear.  On  the  con-^ 
trary,  I  am  prepared  to  do  quite  a  fine  amount  of  living — only 
on  new  and  more  modest  lines  perhaps.  But  we  won't  talk 
about  that  just  yet,  please.  We'll  wait  to  give  it  a  name 
until  we're  a  little  more  sure  how  it  promises  to  work  out." 


CHAPTER  VII 

WHEREIN    TWO    ENEMIES    ARE    SEEN    TO    CRY    QUITS 

r^ODFREY  ORMISTON  scudded  along  the  terrace,  past 
^"^^  the  dining-room  windows,  at  the  top  of  his  speed,  and 
Miss  St.  Quentin  followed  him  at  a  hardly  less  unconventional 
pace.     Together  they   burst,  by  the  small,  arched  side-doof. 


6i2  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

into  the  lobby.  There  ensued  discussion  lively  though  brief. 
Then,  Winter  setting  wide  the  dining-room  door  in  invitation, 
sight  of  Honoria  vi^as  presented  to  the  company  assembled 
within. — She,  in  brave  attire  of  dark,  red  cloth,  black  braided 
and  befrogged,  heavy,  silk  cords  and  knotted,  dangling  tassels 
— head-gear  to  match,  dark  red  and  black,  a  tall,  stiff  aigrette 
set  at  the  side  of  it — in  all  producing  a  something  delightfully 
independent,  soldierly,  ruffling  even,  in  her  aspect,  as  she 
pushed  the  black-haired,  bright-faced,  slim-made  lad,  her  two 
hands  on  his  shoulders,  before  her  into  the  room. 

'^  May  we  come  to  luncheon  as  we  are.  Cousin  Katherine  ?  " 
she  cried.  "  We're  scandalously  late,  but  we're  also  most 
ferociously  hungry  and " 

But  here,  although  Lady  Calmady  turned  on  her  a  welcom- 
ing and  far  from  unjoyful  countenance,  she  stopped  dead, 
while  Godfrey  incontinently  gave  vent  to  that  which  his 
younger  brother — sitting  beside  his  mother,  Mary  Ormiston, 
at  table,  on  Richard  Calmady's  right — described  m^entally  as 
''the  most  awful  squawk."  Which  squawk,  it  may  be  added 
— whatever  its  effect  upon  other  members  of  the  company — 
as  denoting  involuntary  and  unceremonious  descent  from  the 
high  places  of  thirteen-year-old,  public-school  omniscience  on 
the  part  of  his  elder,  produced  in  eight-year-old  Dick  Ormis- 
ton  such  overflowings  of  unqualified  rapture  that,  for  a  good 
two  minutes,  he  had  to  forego  assimilation  of  chocolate  soujffiet^ 
and,  slipping  his  hands  beneath  the  table,  squeeze  them  to- 
gether just  as  hard  as  ever  he  could  with  both  knees,  to  avoid 
disgracing  himself  by  emission  of  an  ecstatic  giggle.  For 
once  he  had  got  the  whip  hand  of  Godfrey  ! — Having  himself, 
for  the  best  part  of  an  hour  now,  been  conversant  with  interest- 
ing developments,  he  found  it  richly  diverting  to  behold  his 
big  brother  thus  incontinently  bowled  over  by  sudden  disclosure 
of  them.  He  repressed  the  giggle,  with  the  help  of  squeezing 
knees  and  a  certain  squirming  all  down  his  neat,  little  back, 
but  his  blue  eyes  remained  absolutely  glued  to  Godfrey's 
person,  as  the  latter,  recovering  his  presence  of  mind  and 
good  manners,  proceeded  solemnly  up  to  the  head  of  the 
table  to  greet  his  unlooked-for  host. 

Honoria,  meanwhile,  if  guiltless  of  an  audible  squawk, 
had  been — as  she  subsequently  reflected — potentially  alarmingly 
capable  of  some  such  primitive  expression  of  feeling.     For  the 


THE  NEW  HEAVEN  AND  NEW  EARTH    613 

shock  of  surprise  which  she  suffered  was  so  forcible,  that  it 
induced  in  her  an  absurd  unreasoning  instinct  of  flight.  In- 
deed,  that  had  happened,  or  rather  was  in  process  of  happen- 
ing, which  revolutionised  all  her  outlook.  For  that  the  un- 
seen presence,  consciousness  of  which  had  come  to  be  so 
constant  a  quantity  in  her  action  and  her  thought,  should  thus 
declare  itself  in  visible  form,  be  materialised,  become  concrete, 
and  that  instantly,  without  prologue  or  preparation,  projecting 
itself  wholesale — so  to  speak — into  the  comfortable  common- 
places of  a  Sunday  luncheon — after  her  slightly  uproarious 
race  home  with  a  perfectly  normal  schoolboy,  from  morning 
church  too — affected  her  much  as  sudden  intrusion  of  the 
supernatural  might.  It  modified  all  existing  relations,  intro- 
ducing a  new  and,  as  yet,  incalculable  element.  Nor  had  she 
quite  yet  realised  what  power  the  unseen  Richard  Calmady^ 
these  many  years,  had  exercised  over  her  imagination,  until 
Richard  Calmady  seen,  was  there  evident,  actually  before  her. 
Then  all  the  harsh  judgments  she  had  passed  upon  him,  all 
the  disapproval  of,  and  dislike  she  had  felt  towards,  him,  flashed 
through  her  mind.  And  that  matter  too  of  his  cancelled  en- 
gagement ! — The  last  time  she  had  seen  him  was  in  the  house 
in  Lowndes  Square,  on  the  night  of  Lady  Louisa  Barking's 
great  ball,  standing — she  could  see  all  that  now — it  was  as  if 
photographed  upon  her  brain — always  would  be — and  it  turned 
her  a  little  sick. — Nevertheless  it  was  impossible  to  pause  any 
longer.  It  would  be  ridiculous  to  fly,  so  she  must  stick  it 
out.  That  best  of  good  Samaritans,  Mary  Ormiston,  began 
talking  to  Julius  March  across  the  length  of  the  table. 

"  Oh  dear,  yes,  of  course,"  she  was  saying.  "  But  I  never 
realised  she  was  a  sister  of  your  old  Oxford  friend.  I  wish  I 
had.  It  would  have  been  so  pleasant  to  talk  about  you  and 
about  home  in  that  far  country  !  Her  husband  is  in  the  Rifle 
Brigade,  and  she  really  is  a  nice,  dear  woman.  I  saw  a  great 
deal  of  her  while  we  were  at  the  Cape.'* 

And  so,  under  cover  of  Mary's  kindly  conversation.  Miss 
St.  Quentin  settled  down  into  her  lazy,  swinging  stride.  Her 
small  head  carried  high,  her  pale,  sensitive  face  very  serious, 
her  straight  eyebrows  drawn  together  by  concentration  of  pur- 
pose, concentration  of  thought,  she  followed  the  boy  up  the 
long  room. 

As  she  came  towards  him,  Richard  Calmady  looked  full  at 


6i4  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

her.  His  head  was  carried  somewhat  high  too.  His  face  was 
very  still.  His  eyes — with  those  curiously  small  pupils  to 
them — were  very  observant,  in  effect  hiding  rather  than  re-* 
vealing  his  thought.  His  manner,  as  he  held  out  his  hand  to 
her,  was  courteous,  even  friendly,  and  yet,  notwithstanding  her 
high  and  fearless  spirit,  Honoria — for  the  first  time  in  her  life 
probably — felt  afraid.  And  then  she  began  to  understand  how 
it  came  about  that,  whether  he  behaved  well  or  ill,  whether  he 
was  good  or  bad,  cruel  or  kind,  seen  or  unseen  even,  Richard, 
of  necessity,  could  not  but  occupy  a  good  deal  of  space  in  the 
lives  of  all  persons  brought  into  close  contact  with  him.  For 
she  recognised  in  him  a  rather  tremendous  creature,  self-con- 
tained, not  easily  accessible,  possessed  of  a  larger  portion  than 
most  men  of  energy  and  resolution,  possessed  too — and  this, 
as  she  thought  of  it,  again  turned  her  a  trifle  sick — of  an  un- 
usual capacity  of  suffering. 

"  I  am  ashamed  of  being  so  dreadfully  late,"  she  said  as  she 
slipped  into  the  vacant  place  on  his  left. — Godfrey  Ormiston 
was  beyond  her,  next  to  Julius  March. — Honoria  was  aware 
that  her  voice  sounded  slightly  unsteady,  in  part  from  her  re- 
cent scamper,  in  part  from  a  queer  emotion  which  seemed  to 
clutch  at  her  throat. — "  But  we  walked  home  over  the  fields 
and  by  the  Warren,  and  just  in  that  boggy  bit  where  you  cross 
the  Welsh-road,  Godfrey  found  the  slot  of  a  red-deer  in  the 
snow,  and  naturally  we  both  had  to  follow  it  up." 

"Naturally,"  Richard  said. 

"  I'm  not  so  sure  it  was  a  red-deer,  Honoria,"  the  boy 
broke  in. 

"  Oh  yes.  It  was,"  she  declared  as  she  helped  herself  to  a 
cutlet.     "  It  couldn't  have  been  anything  else." 

"  Why  not  ?  "  Richard  asked.  He  was  interested  by  the 
tone  of  assurance  in  which  she  spoke. 

"  Oh,  well,  the  tracks  were  too  big  for  a  fallow-deer  to  be- 
gin with.  And  then  there's  a  difference,  you  can't  mistake  it 
if  you've  ever  compared  the  two,  in  the  cleft  of  the  hoof." 

"  And  you  have  compared  the  two  ?  " 

"  Oh,  certainly,"  Honoria  answered. — She  was  beginning 
to  recover  her  nonchalance  of  manner  and  indolent  slowness 
of  speech.  "  I  lose  no  opportunity  of  acquiring  odds  and 
ends  of  information.  One  never  knows  when  they  may 
come  in  handy." 


THE  NEW  HEAVEN  AND  NEW  EARTH  615 

She  looked  at  him  as  she  spoke,  and  her  upper  iip  shortened 
and  her  eyes  narrowed  into  a  delightful  smile — a  smile,  more- 
over, which  had  the  faintest  trace  of  an  asking  of  pardon  in 
it.  And  it  struck  Richard  that  there  was  in  her  expression 
and  bearing  a  transparent  sincerity,  and  that  her  eyes — now 
narrowed  as  she  smiled— were  not  the  clear,  soft  brown  they 
appeared  at  a  distance  to  be,  but  an  indefinable  colour,  com- 
parable only  to  the  dim,  yet  clear,  green  gloom  which  haunts 
the  under-spaces  of  an  ilex  grove  upon  a  summer  day.  He 
turned  his  head  rather  sharply.  He  did  not  want  to  think 
about  matters  of  that  sort.  He  was  grateful  to  this  young 
lady  for  the  devoted  care  she  had  bestowed  on  his  mother — 
but,  otherwise  her  presence  was  only  a  part  of  that  daily  dis- 
cipline which  must  be  cheerfully  undertaken  in  obedience  ta 
the  exigencies  of  his  new  and  fair  idea. 

"  Probably  it  is  a  deer  that  has  broken  out  of  Windsor 
Great  Park  and  traveled,"  he  said.  "They  do  that  some- 
times, you  know." 

But  here  small  Dick  Ormiston,  whose  spirits,  lately  pirouet- 
ting on  giddy  heights  of  felicity,  had  suffered  swift  declension 
bootwards  at  mention  of  his  thrilling  adventure  in  which,  alas^ 
he  had  neither  lot  nor  part,  projected  himself  violently  into 
the  conversational  arena. 

"  Mother,"  he  piped,  his  words  tumbling  one  over  the  other 
in  his  eagerness — "  Mother,  I  expect  it's  the  same  deer  that 
grandpapa  was  talking  about  when  Lord  Shotover  came  over 
to  tea  last  Friday,  and  wanted  to  know  if  Honoria  wasn't  back 
at  Newlands  again.  And  then  he  and  grandpapa  yarned,  don't 
you  know.  Because,  Cousin  Richard — it  must  have  been 
while  you  were  away  last  year — the  buckhounds  met  at 
Bagshot  and  ran  through  Frimley  and  right  across  Spendle 
Flats " 

"  No,  they  didn't.  Cousin  Richard,"  Godfrey  interrupted. 
"  They  ran  through  the  bottom  of  Sandy  field  Lower  Wood." 

"  But  they  lost — any  way  they  lost.  Cousin  Richard,"  the 
younger  boy  cried. — "You  weren't  there,  Godfrey,  so  you 
can't  know  what  grandpapa  said.  He  said  they  lost  some- 
where just  into  Brockhurst,  and  he  told  Lord  Shotover  how 
they  beat  up  the  country  for  nearly  a  week,  and  how  they 
never  found  it,  and  had  to  give  it  up  as  a  bad  job  and  go  home 
again.     And — and — Lord    Shotover   said,    rotten    bad    sporty 


6i6  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

stag-hunting,  unless  you  get  it  on  Exmoor,  where  they're  not 
carted  and  they  don't  saw  their  antlers  off.  He  said  meets  of 
the  buckhounds  ought  to  be  called  Stockbroker's  Parade,  that 
was  about  all  they  amounted  to.  And  so,  Cousin  Richard,  I 
think, — don't  you,  mother — that  this  must  be  that  same  deer  ?  " 

Whereat  the  elder  Dick's  expression,  which  had  grown 
somewhat  dark  at  the  mention  of  Lord  Shotover,  brightened 
sensibly  again.  And,  for  cause  unknown,  he  looked  at  Ho- 
noria,  smiling  amusedly,  before  saying  to  the  very  voluble 
small  sportsman  : — 

"  To  be  sure,  Dick.  Your  arguments  are  unanswerable, 
convincingly  sound.  No  reasonable  man  could  have  a  doubt 
about  it !     Of  course  it's  the  same  deer." 

And  so  the  luncheon  finished  gaily  enough,  though  Miss 
St.  Quentin  was  conscious  her  contributions  to  the  cultivation 
of  that  same  gaiety  were  but  spasmodic.  She  dreaded  the 
conclusion  of  the  meal,  fearing  lest  then  she  might  be  called 
upon  to  behold  Richard  Calmady  once  again,  as  she  had  be- 
held him — now  just  on  six  years  ago — in  the  half  dismantled 
house  in  Lowndes  Square,  on  the  night  of  Lady  Louisa  Bark- 
ing's ball.  And  from  that  she  shrank,  not  with  her  former 
physical  repulsion  towards  the  man  himself,  but  with  the 
moral  repulsion  of  one  compelled  against  his  will  to  gaze  upon 
a  pitifully  cruel  sight,  the  sufFering  of  which  he  Is  powerless 
to  lessen  or  amend.  The  short,  light-made  crutches,  lying  on 
the  floor  by  the  young  man's  chair,  shocked  her  as  the  callous 
exhibition  of  some  unhappy  prisoner's  shackllng-Irons  might. 
It  constituted  an  indignity  offered  to  the  Richard  sitting  here 
beside  her,  so  much  as  to  think  of,  let  alone  look  at,  that  same 
Richard  when  on  foot.  Therefore  it  was  with  an  oddly 
mingled  relief  and  sense  of  playing  traitor,  that  she  rose  with 
the  rest  of  the  little  company  and  left  him  by  himself.  She 
was  thankful  to  escape,  though  all  the  while  her  Inherent  loy- 
alty tormented  her  with  accusation  of  meanness,  as  of  one 
who  deserts  a  comrade  in  distress. 

But  here  the  small  Dick,  to  whom  such  complex  refine- 
ments of  sensibility  were  as  yet  wholly  foreign,  created  a  di- 
version by  prancing  round  from  the  far  side  of  the  table  and 
forcibly  '^-^izlng  her  hand.  He  was  jealous  of  the  large  share 
Godfrey  had  to-day  secured  of  her  society.  He  meant  to 
have   his   innings.     So  he  rubbed   his  curly  head  against  her 


THE  NEW  HEAVEN  AND  NEW  EARTH    617 

much  braided  elbow,  butting  her  lovingly  in  the  exuberance  of 
his  affection  as  some  nice,  little  ram-lamb  might.  But  just  as 
they  reached  the  door,  through  which  Lady  Calmady  and 
the  rest  of  the  party  had  already  passed,  the  boy  drew  up 
short. 

"  I  say,  hold  on  half  a  minute,  Honoria,  please,"  he  said. 

And  then,  turning  round,  his  cheeks  red  as  peonies,  he 
marched  back  to  where  Richard  sat  alone  at  the  head  of  the 
table. 

"  In  case — in  case,  don't  you  know,"  he  began,  stuttering 
in  the  excess  of  his  excitement — "  in  case.  Cousin  Richard, 
mummy  didn't  quite  take  in  what  you  said  at  the  beginning  of 
luncheon — you  did  mean  for  really  that  I  was  to  come  and 
stay  here  in  the  summer  holidays,  and  that  you'd  take  me  out, 
don't  you  know,  and  show  me  your  horses  ? " 

And  to  Honoria,  glancing  at  them,  there  was  a  singular,  and 
almost  tragic,  comment  on  life  in  the  likeness,  yet  unlikeness, 
of  those  two  faces. — The  features  almost  identical,  the  same 
blue  eyes,  the  two  heads  alike  in  shape,  each  with  the  same 
close-fitted,  bright-brown  cap  of  hair.  But  the  boy's  face 
flushed,  without  afterthought  or  qualification  of  its  eager  hap- 
piness— the  man's  colourless,  full  of  reserve,  almost  alarm- 
ingly self-contained  and  still. 

Yet,  when  the  elder  Richard's  answer  came,  it  was  alto- 
gether gentle  and  kindly. 

"Yes,  most  distinctly  y^r  really^  Dick,"  he  said.  "Let 
there  be  no  mistake  about  it.  Let  it  be  clearly  understood  I 
want  to  have  you  here  just  as  long,  and  just  as  often,  as  your 
mother  and  father  will  spare  you.  I'll  show  you  the  horses, 
never  fear,  and  let  you  ride  them  too." 
A — a — a  real  big  one  ?  " 

Just  as  big  a  one  as  you  can  straddle."  Richard  paused. 
And  I'll  show  you  other  things,  if  all  goes  well,  which 
I'm  beginning  to  think — and  perhaps  you'll  think  so  too  some 
day — are  more  important  even  than  horses." 

He  put  his  hand  under  the  boy's  chin,  tipped  up  the  ruddy, 
beaming,  little  face  and  kissed  it. 

"  It's  a  compact,"  he  said. — "  Now  cut  along,  old  chap. 
Don't  you  see  you're  keeping  Miss  St.  Quentin  waiting  ?  " 

Whereupon  the  small  Richard  started  soberly  enough,  be- 
ing slightly  impressed  by  something — he  knew  not  quite  what 


iC 


IC 


6i8  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

— only  that  it  made  him  feel  awfully  fond,  somehow,  of  this 
newly  discovered  cousin  and  namesake/--  But,  about  half-way 
down  the  room,  that  promise  of  a  horse,  a  thorough-bred,  and 
just  as  big  as  he  could  straddle,  swept  all  before  it,  rendering 
his  spirits  uncontrollably  explosive.  So  he  made  a  wild  rush 
and  flung  himself  headlong  upon  the  waiting  Honoria. 

"  Oh  !  you  want  to  bear-fight,  do  you  ?  Two  can  play  at 
that  game,"  she  cried,  "  you  young  rascal !  " 

Then  without  apparent  effort,  or  diminution  of  her  lazy 
grace,  the  elder  Richard  saw  her  pick  the  boy  up  by  his  mid- 
die,  and,  notwithstanding  convulsive  wrigglings  on  his  part, 
throw  him  across  her  shoulder  and  bear  him  bodily  away 
through  the  lobby,  into  the  hall,  and  out  of  sight. 

Hence  it  fell  out  that  not  until  quite  late  that  evening  did 
the  moment  so  dreaded  by  Miss.  St.  Quentin  actually  arrive. 
In  furtherance  of  delay  she  practised  a  diplomacy  not  alto- 
gether flattering  to  her  self-respect,  coming  down  rather  late 
for  dinner,  and  retiring  immediately  after  that  meal  to  the 
Gun-Room,  under  plea  of  correspondence  which  must  be 
posted  at  Farley  in  time  for  to-morrow's  day  mail.  She  was 
even  late  for  prayers  in  the  chapel,  so  that,  taking  her  accus- 
tomed place  next  to  Lady  Calmady  in  the  last  but  one  of  the 
stalls  upon  the  epistle-side,  she  found  all  the  members  of  the 
household,  gentle  and  simple  alike,  already  upon  their  knees. 
The  household  mustered  strong  that  night,  a  testimony,  it  may 
be  supposed,  to  feudal  as  much  as  to  religious  feeling.  In  the 
seats  immediately  below  her  were  an  array  of  women-servants, 
declining  from  the  high  dignities  of  Mrs.  Reynolds  the  house- 
keeper, the  faithful  Clara,  and  her  own  lanky  and  loyal  north- 
country  woman  Faulstich,  to  a  very  youthful  scullery  maid, 
sitting  just  without  the  altar  rails  at  the  end  of  the  long  row. 
Opposite  were  not  only  Winter,  Bates  the  steward,  Pow^ell, 
Andrews,  and  the  other  men-servants,  but  Chaplin,  heading  a 
detachment  from  the  house  stables,  and — unexampled  occur- 
rence ! — Gnudi  the  Italian  chef^  with  his  air  of  gentle  and 
philosophic  melancholy  and  his  anarchic  sentiments  in  the- 
ology and  politics,  liable, — these  last — when  enlarged  on,  to 
cause  much  fluttering  in  the  dove-cote  of  the  housekeeper's 
room. — "  To  hear  Signor  Gnudi  talk  sometimes  made  your 
blood  run  cold.  It  seemed  as  if  you  couldn't  be  safe  any- 
where from  those  wicked  foreign  barricades  and  massacres," 


THE  NEW  HEAVEN  AND  NEW  EARTH    619 

as  Clara  put  it.  And  yet,  in  point  of  fact,  no  milder  man 
ever  larded  a  woodcock  or  stuffed  it  with  truffles. 

Alone,  behind  all  these,  in  the  first  of  the  row  of  stalls 
with  their  carven  spires  and  dark  vaulted  canopies,  sat  Rich- 
ard Calmady,  whom  all  his  people  had  thus  come  forth  si- 
lently to  welcome.  But,  through  prayer  and  psalm  and  lesson 
alike,  as  Miss  St.  Quentin  noted,  he  remained  immovable,  to 
her  almost  alarmingly  cold  and  self-concentrated.  Only  once 
he  turned  his  head,  leaning  a  little  forward  and  lookmg  to- 
wards the  purple,  and  silver,  and  fair,  white  flowers  of  the 
altar,  and  the  clear  shining  of  the  altar  lights. 

"Then  shall  the  righteous  answer  him,  saying.  Lord,  when 
saw  we  thee  an  hungered  and  fed  thee  ?  or  thirsty  and  gave 
thee  drink  ?  When  saw  we  thee  a  stranger,  and  took  thee  in  ? 
or  naked  and  clothed  thee  ?  Or  when  saw  we  thee  sick,  or 
in  prison,  and  came  unto  thee  ?  And  the  King  shall  answer 
and  say  unto  them.  Verily  I  say  unto  you,  inasmuch  as  ye  have 
done  it  unto  one  of  the  least  of  these  my  brethren,  ye  have 
done  it  unto  me." 

The  words  were  given  out  by  Julius  March,  not  only  with 
an  exquisite  distinctness  of  enunciation,  but  with  a  ring  of 
assurance,  of  sustaining  and  thankful  conviction.  Richard 
leaned  back  in  his  stall  again,  looking  across  at  his  mother. 
While  Honoria,  taken  with  a  sensitive  fear  of  inquiring  into 
matters  not  rightfully  hers  to  inquire  into,  hastily  turned  her 
eyes  upon  her  open  prayer-book.  They  must  have  many 
things  to  say  to  one  another,  that  mother  and  son,  as  she  di- 
vined, to-day, — far  be  it  from  her  to  attempt  to  surprise  their 
confidence ! 

She  rose  from  her  knees,  cutting  her  final  petitions  some- 
what short,  directly  the  last  of  the  men-servants  had  filed  out 
of  the  chapel,  and,  crossing  the  Chapel-Room,  a  tall,  pale 
figure  in  her  trailing,  white,  evening  dress,  she  pulled  back 
the  curtain  of  the  oriel  window,  opened  one  of  the  curved, 
many-paned  casements  and  looked  out.  She  was  curiously 
moved,  very  sensible  of  a  deeper  drama  going  forward  around 
her,  going  forward  in  her  own  thought — subtly  modifying  and 
transmuting  it — than  she  could  at  present  either  explain  or 
place.  The  night  was  cloudy  and  very  mild.  A  soft,  sob- 
bing, westerly  wind,  with  the  smell  of  coming  rain  in  it,  sa- 
luted her  as  she  opened  the  casement.     The  last  of  the  frost 


620  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

must  be  gone,  by  now,  even  in  the  hollows — the  snow  wholly 
departed  also.  The  spring,  though  young  and  feeble  yet, 
puling  like  some  ailing  baby-child  in  the  voice  of  that  softly- 
complaining,  westerly  wind,  was  here,  very  really  present  at 
last.  Honoria  leaned  her  elbows  on  the  stone  window-ledge. 
Her  heart  went  out  in  strong  emotion  of  tenderness  towards 
that  moist  wind  which  seemed  to  cry,  as  in  a  certain  homeless- 
ness,  against  her  bare  arms  and  bare  neck. — "  Inasmuch  as  ye 
did  it  unto  one  of  the  least  of  these  my  brethren '' 

But  just  then  Katherine  Calmady  called  to  her,  and  that  in 
a  sweet,  if  rather  anxious,  tone. 

"  Honoria,  dear  child,  come  here,"  she  said.  "  Richard  is 
putting  me  through  the  longer  catechism  regarding  those  heath 
fires  in  August  year,  and  the  state  of  the  woods." 

Then,  as  the  youug  lady  approached  her,  Lady  Calmady 
laid  one  hand  on  her  arm,  looking  up  in  quick  and  loving  ap- 
peal at  the  serious  and  slightly  troubled  face. 

"  My  answers  only  reveal  the  woeful  greatness  of  my  ig- 
norance. My  geography  has  run  mad.  I  am  planting  forests 
in  the  midst  of  corn-fields,  so  Dickie  assures  me,  and  making 
hay  generally — as  you,  my  dear,  would  say — of  the  map." 

Still  her  eyes  dwelt  upon  Honoria's  in  insistent  and  loving 
appeal. 

"  Come,"  she  said,  "  explain  to  him,  and  save  me  from 
further  exposition  of  my  own  ignorance." 

Thus  admonished  the  young  lady  sat  down  on  the  low 
sofa  beside  Richard  Calmady.  As  she  did  so  Katherine  rose 
and  moved  away.  Honoria  determined  to  see  only  the  young 
man's  broad  shoulders,  his  irreproachable  dress  clothes,  his 
strangely  still  and  very  handsome  face.  But,  since  there  was 
no  concealing  rug  to  cover  them,  it  was  impossible  that  she 
should  long  avoid  also  seeing  his  shortened  and  defective 
limbs  and  oddly  shod  feet.  And  at  that  she  winced  and  shrank 
a  little,  for  all  her  high  spirit  and  inviolate,  maidenly  strength. 

"  Oh  yes  !  those  fires  !  "  she  said  hurriedly.  "  There  were 
several — you  remember,  Cousm  Katherine  ? — or  I  dare  say  you 
don't,  for  you  were  ill  all  the  time.  But  the  worst  was  on 
Spendle  Flats.  You  know  that  long  three-cornered  bit  " — she 
looked  Richard  bravely  in  the  face  again — '*•  which  lies  between 
the  Portsmouth  Road  and  our  crossroad  to  Farley  ?  It  runs 
into  a  point  just  at  the  top  of  Star  Hill." 


THE  NEW  HEAVEN  AND  NEW  EARTH  621 

"Yes,  I  know,"  Dickie  said. 

He  had  seen  her  wince. — Well,  that  wasn't  wonderrul ! 
She  could  not  very  well  do  otherwise,  if  she  had  eyes  in  her 
head.  He  did  not  blame  her.  And  then,  though  It  was  not 
easy  to  do  so  with  entire  serenity,  this  was  precisely  one  of 
those  small  unpleasant  incidents  which,  in  obedience  to  his  new 
code,  he  was  bound  to  accept  calmly,  good-temperedly,  just  as 
part  of  the  day's  work,  in  fact.  He  had  done  with  malinger- 
ing. He  had  done  with  the  egoism  of  sulking  and  hiding — 
even  to  the  extent  of  a  couvre-pieds.  All  right,  here  It  was ! 
— Richard  settled  his  shoulders  squarely  against  the  straight, 
stuffed  back  of  the  Chippendale  sofa,  and  talked  on. 

"  It's  a  pity  that  bit  is  burnt,"  he  said.  "  I  haven't  been 
over  that  ground  for  nearly  six  years,  of  course.  But  I  re- 
member there  were  very  good  trees' there — a  plantation  at  the 
top  end,  just  before  you  come  to  the  big  gravel-pits,  and  the 
rest  self-sown.     Are  they  all  gone  ?  " 

"  Licked  as  clean  as  the  back  of  your  hand,"  Honoria  re- 
plied, warming  to  her  subject.  "  They  hardly  repaid  felling 
for  firewood.  It  made  me  wretched.  Some  idiot  threw  down 
a  match,  I  suppose.  There  had  been  nearly  a  month's 
drought,  and  the  whole  place  was  like  so  much  tinder.  There 
was  an  easterly  breeze  too.  You  can  imagine  the  blaze  ! 
We  hadn't  the  faintest  chance.  Poor,  old  lies  lost  his  head 
completely,  and  sat  down  with  his  feet  in  a  dry  ditch  and  wept. 
There  must  be  over  two  hundred  acres  of  it.  It's  a  dreadful 
eyesore,  perfectly  barren  and  useless,  but  for  a  little  sour  grass 
even  a  gipsy's  donkey  has  to  be  hard  up  before  he  cares  to 
eat !  " — Aliss  St.  Quentin  shifted  her  position  with  a  certain 
Impatience.  "  I  can't  bear  to  see  the  land  doing  no  work," 
she  said. 

"  Doing  no  work  ?  "  Dickie  inquired.  He  began  to  be  in- 
terested in  the  conversation  from  other  than  a  purely  practical 
and  local  standpoint. 

"  Of  course,"  she  asserted.  "  The  land  has  no  more  right 
to  lie  idle  than  any  of  the  rest  of  us — unless  it's  a  bit  of  tilth 
sweetening  in  fallow  between  two  crops.  That  is  reasonable 
enough.  But  for  the  rest,"  she  said,  a  certain  brightness  and 
self- forgetting  gaining  on  her — "  let  It  contribute  its  share  all 
the  while,  like  an  honest  citizen  of  the  universe.  Let  it  work, 
most  decidedly  let  it  work." 


622  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY  j 

"And  what  about  such  trifles   as  the  few  hundred  square  1 

miles  of  desert   or  mountain  range  ?  "  Richard  inquired,  half  ^ 

amused,  half — and  that  rather  unwillingly — charmed.     "  They  | 

are  liable  to  be  a  thorn  in  the  side  of  the — well,  socialist."  j 

"  Oh,  I've   no  quarrel  with   them.     They  come   under  a  j 

different  head." — Honoria's  manner  had  ceased  to  be  in  any  ^ 

degree  embarrassed,  though  a  slight  perplexity  came  into  her  j 

expression.     For  just  then   she   remembered,  somehow,   her  i 

pacings  of  the  station  platform  at  Culoz,  the  salutation  of  the  j 

bleak,  pure,  evening  wind  from  out  the  fastnesses  of  the  Alps^  ■ 

and  all  her  conversation  there  with  her  faithful  admirer,  Lu-  j 

dovic  Quayle.     And  it  occurred  to  her  what  singular  contrast  ! 

in   sentiment  that   bleak  evening  wind   offered   to   the   mild,  j 

moist,    westerly    wind — complaint    of    the    homeless    baby,,  j 

Spring — which  had  just  now  cried  against  her  bosom  !     And  ! 

again  Honoria  became  conscious  of  being  in  contact,  both  in  i 

herself  and  in  her  surroundings,  with   more  coercing,  more  \ 

vital  drama  than   she  could  either  interpret  or  place.     Again  \ 

something  of  fear  invaded  her,  to  combat  which  she  hurried  \ 

into  speech. — "  No,  I  haven't  any  quarrel  with  deserts  and  so  ■ 

on,"  she  repeated.     "  They're  uncommonly  useful  things  for  j 

mankind  to  knock  its  head  against — invincible,  unnegotiable,  : 

splendidly  competent  to  teach  humanity  its  place.     You  see  i 

we've  grown  not  a  little  conceited — so  at  least  it  seems  to  me  I 

— on   our  evolutionary  journey  up  from  the  primordial  cell,  j 

We're  too  much  inclined  to  forget  we've  developed  soul  quite  ' 

comparatively  recently,  and,  therefore,  that  there  is  probably  ^ 

just  as  long  a  journey  ahead  of  us — before  we  reach  the  ulti-  \ 

mate  of  intellectual  and  spiritual  development — as  there  is  be-  i 

hind   us  physically  from,  say  the  parent  ascidian,  to  you  and  \ 

me.     And — and   somehow" — Honoria's    voice    had    become  ; 

full   and  sweet,  and  she  looked  straight  at  Dickie  with  a  rare  \ 

candour  and  simplicity — "somehow  those  big  open  spaces  re-  I 

mind  one  of  ali  thit.     They  drive  one's  ineffectualness  home  ] 

on  one.     They  remind  one  that  environment,  that  mechanical  | 

civilisation,  all  the  short  cuts  of  applied  science,  after  all  count  l 

for  little  and   inevitably  come  to  the  place  called  st^p.     And  j 

that   braces   one.     It  makes   one   the   more   eager  after  that  - 

which  lies  behind  the  material  aspects  of  things,  and  to  which  { 

these  merely  act  as  a  veil."  | 

Honoria  had  bowed  hwscif  together.     Her  elbows  were  on  J 


THE  NEW  HEAVEN  AND  NEW  EARTH    62J 

hwF  Knees,  her  chin  in  her  two  hands,  her  charming  face  alighif 
with  ?.  pure  enthusiasm.  And  Richard  watched  her  curiously. 
His  acquaintance  with  women  was  fairly  comprehensive,  but 
this  woman  represented  a  type  new  to  his  experience.  He 
wanted  to  tolerate  her  merely,  to  regard  her  as  an  element  in 
his  scheme  of  self-discipline.  And  it  began  to  occur  to  him 
that,  trom  some  points  of  view,  she  knew  as  much  about  that, 
as  nidch  about  the  idea  inspiring  it,  as  he  did.  He  leaned  him- 
self back  in  the  angle  of  the  sofa,  and  clasped  his  hands  be- 
hind his  head. 

"  All  the  same,"  he  said,  "  I  am  afraid  those  burnt  acres  on 
Spendle  Flats  are  hardly  extensive  enough  to  afford  an  object 
for  me  to  knock  my  head  against,  and  so  enforce  salutary  re- 
membrance of  the  limitations  of  human  science.  Possibly 
that  has  already  been  sufficiently  brought  home  to  me  in  other 
ways." 

He  paused  a  minute. 

Honoria  straightened  herself  up.  Again  she  saw — whether 
she  would  or  no — those  defective  shortened  limbs  and  oddly 
shod  feet.  And  again,  somehow,  that  complaint  of  the  moist 
spring  wind  seemed  to  cry  against  her  bare  arms  and  neck,  be- 
getting an  overwhelming  pitifulness  in  her. 

"  So,  since  it's  not  necessary  we  should  reserve  it  as  an  ob- 
ject lesson  in  general  inefFectualness,  Miss  St.  Quentin,  what 
shall  we  do  with  it  ?  " 

"  Oh,  plant,"  she  said. 

*'  With  the  ubiquitous  Scotchman  ?  " 

"It  wouldn't  carry  anything  else,  except  along  the  bound- 
aries. There  you  might  put  in  a  row  of  horn-beam  and  oak. 
They  always  look  rather  nice  against  a  background  of  firs. — 
Only  the  stumps  of  the  burnt  trees  ought  to  be  stubbed." 

"  Let  them  be  stubbed,"  Richard  said. 

"  Where  are  you  going  to  find  the  labour  ?  The  estate  is 
very  much  under-manned." 

"  Import  it,"  Richard  said. 

"  No,  no,"  Honoria  answered,  again  warming  to  her  sub- 
ject. "  I  don't  believe  in  imported  labour.  If  you  have  men 
by  the  week,  they  must  lodge.  And  the  lodger  is  as  the  ten 
plaguef  of  Egypt  in  a  village.  If  a  man  comes  by  the  day, 
he  is  tired  and  slack.  His  heart  is  not  in  his  work.  He 
does  as  little  as  he  can.     Moreover,  in  either  case,  the  wife 


624  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

and  children  suffer.  He's  certain  to  take  them  home  short 
money.  He's  pretty  safe,  being  tired  in  the  one  case,  or,  in 
the  other,  on  the  loose,  to  drink." 

Dickie's  face  gave.     He  laughed  a  little. 

^'  We  seem  to  have  come  to  a  fine  impasse  !  "  he  remarked, 
"Though  humiliatingly  small,  that  tract  of  burnt  land  must 
clearly  be  kept  to  knock  one's  head  against." 

Honoria  rose  to  her  feet. 

"  Richard,  I  vi^ish  you'd  build,"  she  said,  in  her  earnestness 
unconscious  of  the  unceremonious  character  of  her  address. 
"  lies  ought  to  have  done  that  before  now.  But  he  is  old  and 
timid,  and  his  one  idea  has  been  to  save.  You  knovi^  this 
Brockhurst  property  alone  would  carry  eight  or  ten  more 
families.  There's  plenty  of  work.  It  needn't  be  made.  It  is 
there  ready  to  hand.  Give  them  good  gardens,  allotments  if 
you  can,  and  leave  to  keep  a  pig.  That's  infinitely  better 
than  extravagant  wages.  Root  them  down  in  the  soil.  Let 
them  love  the  place — tie  them  up  to  it " 

"  Your  socialism  is  rather  quaintly  crossed  with  feudalism, 
isn't  it  ?  "  Dickie  remarked. 

He  drew  himself  forward,  slipped  down  off  the  sofa,  stood 
upright.  And  then,  indeed,  the  cruel  disparity  between  his 
stature  and  her  own — for  tall  though  she  was,  he,  by  right  of 
make  and  length  of  arm,  should  evidently  have  been  by  some 
two  or  three  inches  the  taller — and  all  the  grotesqueness  of 
his  deformity,  were  fully  disclosed  to  Honoria.  For  the 
second  time  that  day,  her  tact,  her  presence  of  mind,  her 
ready  speech,  deserted  her.  She  backed  a  little  away  from 
him. 

And  Richard  perceived  that.  It  is  not  easy  to  be  absolutely 
philosophic.  Something  of  his  old  anger  revived  towards  Miss 
St.  Quentin.  He  shuffled  forward  a  step  or  two,  and,  steady- 
ing himself  with  one  hand  on  the  arm  of  the  sofa,  reached 
down  to  pick  up  his  crutches.  But  his  grasp  was  not  very 
sure  just  then.  He  secured  one.  To  his  intense  annoyance 
the  other  escaped  him,  falling  back  on  the  floor  with  a  rattle. 
Then,  instantly,  before  he  could  make  effort  to  recover  it, 
Honoria's  white  figure  swept  down  on  one  knee  in  front  of 
him.  She  laid  hold  of  the  crutch,  gave  it  him  silently,  and 
rose  to  her  full  height  again,  pale,  gallant,  stately,  but  with  a 
quivering  of  her  lips  and  nostrils,  and  an  amazement  of  regret 


THE  NEW  HEAVEN  AND  NEW  EARTH    625 

and   pity  in   her  eyes,  which  very  certainly  had  never  found 
place  there  heretofore. 

^'Thanks,"  Richard  said. — He  waited  just  a  minute.  He 
too  was  amazed  somehow.  He  needed  to  revise  the  position. 
— "  About  those  eight  or  ten  happy  families  whom  you  wish 
to  root  so  firmly  in  the  soil,  and  the  housing  of  them — are  you 
busy  to-morrow  morning  ?  " 

"Oh  no — no" — Honoria  declared,  with  rather  unnecessary 
emphasis. 

Generosity  should  surely  be  met  by  generosity.  Dickie 
leaned  his  arm  against  the  arm  of  the  sofa,  and  looked  up  at 
the  speaker.  Her  transparent  sincerity,  her  superb  chastity — 
he  could  call  it  by  no  other  word — of  manner  and  movement, 
even  of  outline — the  slight  angularity  of  strong  muscle  as  op- 
posed to  soft  roundness  of  cushioned  flesh — these  arrested  and 
impressed  him. 

"  I  had  Chifney  up  from  the  stables  this  afternoon  and  made 
my  peace  with  him,"  he  said.  "  He  was  very  full  of  your 
praises,  Honoria — for  the  cousinship  may  as  well  be  acknowl- 
edged between  us,  don't  you  think  ?  You  have  supplemented 
my  lapses  in  respect  of  him,  as  of  a  good  deal  else." — Richard 
looked  away  to  the  door  of  Lady  Calmady's  bedroom.  It 
stood  open,  and  Katherine  came  from  within  with  some  books, 
and  a  silver  candlestick,  in  her  hands. 

"  My  dears,"  she  said,  "  do  you  know  it  grows  very  late  ?  " 

"  All  right,"  he  answered,  "  we're  making  out  some  plans 
for  to-morrow." — He  looked  at  Honoria  again.  "  Chifney  en- 
gaged he  and  Chaplin  would  find  a  horse,  between  them, 
which  could  be  trusted  to — well — to  put  up  with  me,"  he 
said.  "  I  promised  to  go  down  and  have  breakfast  with  dear 
Mrs.  Chifney  at  the  stables,  but  I  can  be  back  here  by  eleven. 
Would  you  be  inclined  to  come  out  with  me  then  ?  We 
could  ride  over  to  that  burnt  land  and  have  a  poke  round  for 
sites  for  your  cottages." 

"  Oh  yes,  indeed,  I  can  come,"  Honoria  answered.  Her 
delightful  smile  beamed  forth,  and  it  had  a  new  and  very  deli- 
cate charm  in  it.  For  it  so  happened  that  the  woman  in  her 
whom — to  use  her  own  phrase — she  had  condemned  to  solitary 
confinement  in  the  back  attic,  beat  very  violently  against  her 
prison  door  just  then  in  attempt  to  escape. 

Dear  Cousin  Katherine,  good-night.     Good-night,  Rich- 


u 


626  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

ard,"  she  said  hurriedly. — She  went  out  of  the  room,  lazuy, 
slowly,  down  the  black,  polished  staircase,  across  the  great, 
silent  hall,  and  along  the  farther  lobby.  But  she  let  the  Gun- 
Room  door  bang  to  behind  her  and  flung  herself  down  in  the 
armchair — in  which,  by  the  way,  the  old  bull-dog  had  died  a 
year  ago,  broken-hearted  by  over  long  waiting  for  the  home- 
coming of  his  absent  master.  And  then  Honoria,  though  the 
least  tearful  of  women,  wept — not  in  petulant  anger,  or  with 
the  easy,  luxuriously  sentimental  overflow  common  to  feminine 
humanity,  but  reluctantly,  with  hard,  irregular  sobs  which 
hurt,  yet  refused  to  be  stifled,  since  the  extreme  limit  of 
emotional  and  mental  endurance  had  been  reached. 

"  Oh,  it's  fine  !  "  she  said,  half  aloud.  "  I  can  see  that  it's 
fine — but,  dear  God,  is  there  no  way  out  of  it  ?  It's  so 
horribly,  so  unspeakably  sad." 

And  Richard  remained  on  into  the  small  hours,  sitting  be- 
fore the  dying  fire  of  the  big  hearth-place,  at  the  eastern  end 
of  the  gallery.  Mentally  he  audited  his  accounts,  the  profit 
and  loss  of  this  day's  doing,  and,  on  the  whole,  the  balance 
showed  upon  the  profit  side.  Verily  it  was  only  a  day  of 
small  things,  of  very  humble  ambitions,  of  far  from  world- 
shaking  successes  !  Still  four  persons,  he  judged,  he  had  made 
a  degree  or  so  happier. — His  mother  rejoiced,  though  with 
trembling  as  yet,  at  his  return  to  the  ordinary  habits  of  the 
ordinary  man. — Sweet,  dear  thing,  small  wonder  that  she 
trembled  !  He  had  led  her  such  a  dance  in  the  past,  that  any 
new  departure  must  give  cause  for  anxious  questionings. 
Dickie  sunk  his  head  in  his  hands. — God  forgive  him,  what 
a  dance  he  had  led  her  ! — And  Julius  March  was  happier — 
he,  Richard,  was  pretty  certain  of  that — since  Julius  could 
not  but  understand  that,  in  the  present  case  at  all  events, 
neither  fulfilment  of  prophecy  nor  answer  to  prayer  had  been 
disregarded. — And  the  hard-bitten,  irascible,  old  trainer,  Tom 
Chifney,  was  happier — probably  really  the  happiest  of  the  lot 
— since  he  demanded  nothing  more  recondite  and  far-reaching 
than  restoration  to  favour,  and  due  recognition  of  the  im- 
portance of  his  calling  and  of  the  merits  of  his  horses. — And 
nice,  funny,  voluble,  little  Dick  Ormiston  was  happier  too. 
Richard's  heart  went  out  strangely  to  the  dear  little  lad  !  He 
wondered  if  it  would  be  too  much  to  ask  Mary  and  Roger  to 
give  him  the  boy  altogether?     Then  he  put  the  thought  from 


THE  NEW  HEAVEN  AND  NEW  EARTH    627 

him,  judging  it  savoured  of  the  selfishness,  the  exclusiveness, 
and  egoism,  with  which  he  had  sworn  to  part  company  for- 
ever. 

He  stretched  his  hand  out  over  the  arm  of  the  chair,  crav- 
ing for  some  creature,  warm,  sentient,  dumbly  sympathetic,  to 
lay  hold  of. — He  remembered  there  used  to  be  a  man  down 
near  Alton,  a  hard-riding  farmer,  who  bred  bull-dogs — white 
ones  with  black  points,  like  Camp  and  Camp's  forefathers. 
He  would  tell  Chifney  to  go  down  there  and  bespeak  the  two 
best  of  the  next  litter  of  puppies. — Yes — he  wanted  a  dog 
again.  It  was  foolish  perhaps,  but  after  all  one  did  want 
something,  and,  since  other  things  were  denied,  a  dog  must  do 
— and  he  wanted  one  badly. — Yet  the  day  had  been  a  success 
on  the  whole.  He  had  been  true  to  his  code.  Only — and 
Richard  shrugged  his  shoulders  rather  wearily — it  had  got  to 
be  begun  all  over  again  to-morrow,  and  next  day,  and  next — 
an  endless  perspective  of  to-morrows.  And  the  poor  flesh, 
with  its  many  demands,  its  delicious  and  iniquitous  passions, 
its  enchantments,  its  revelations,  its  adorable  languors,  its 
drunken  heats,  must  it  have  nothing,  nothing  at  all  ?  Must 
that  whole  side  of  things  be  ruled  out  forever  ? — He  had  no 
more  desire  for  mistresses,  God  forbid — Helen,  somehow,  had 
cleansed  him  of  all  possibility  of  that.  And  he  would  never 
ask  any  woman  to  marry  him.  The  sacrifice  on  her  part 
would  be  too  great. — He  thought  of  little  Lady  Constance. — 
Simply,  it  was  not  right. — So,  practically,  the  emotional  joys 
of  life  were  reduced  to  this — they  must  consist  solely  in  giving 
— giving — giving — of  time,  sympathy,  thought  and  money  ! 
A  far  from  ignoble  programme  no  doubt,  but  a  rather  austere 
one  for  a  man  of  liberal  tastes,  of  varied  experience,  and  of 
barely  thirty. — And  he  was  as  strong  as  a  bull  now.  He 
knew  that.  He  might  live  to  be  ninety. — -Yes,  he  thought  he 
would  ask  for  little  Dick  Ormiston.  The  boy  would  be  an 
amusement  and  interest  him. — And  then  suddenly  the  vision 
of  Honoria  St.  Quentin,  in  her  red  and  black-braided  gown, 
with  that  air  of  something  ruffling  and  soldierly  about  it, 
whipping  the  small  Dick  up  in  her  strong  arms,  throwing  him 
across  her  shoulder  and  bearing  him  off  bodily,  and  of  Ho- 
noria later,  her  sensitive  face  all  alight,  as  she  discoursed  of 
the  ultimate  aim  and  purpose  of  life  and  of  living,  came  be- 
fore him.     Above  her  white  dress,  he  could  see  her  white  and 


628  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

finely  angular  shoulders  as  she  swept  down  to  pick  up  that 
wretched  crutch. — Yes,  she  was  a  being  of  singular  contrasts^ 
c^  remarkable  capacity,  both  mental  and  practical !  And  she 
might  have  a  heart — she  might.  Once  or  twice  it  had  looked 
rather  like  it. — But,  after  all,  what  did  that  matter  ?  The 
feminine  side  of  things  was  excluded.  Besides  he  supposed 
she  was  half  engaged  to  Ludovic  Quayle. 

Dickie  yawned.  He  was  sleepy.  His  meditations  became 
unprofitable.     He  had  best  go  to  bed. 

"  And  the  devil  fly  away  with  all  women,  saving  and  ex- 
cepting my  well  beloved  mother,"  he  said. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

CONCERNING     THE     BROTHERHOOD     FOUNDED     BY     RICHARD 
CALMADY,  AND    OTHER    MATTERS    OF    SOME    INTEREST 

TT  was  Still  very  sultry.  All  the  windows  of  the  red  draw- 
ing-room  stood  wide  open.  Outside  the  thunder  rain 
fell,  straight  as  ramrods,  in  big  globular  drops,  which  spattered 
upon  the  gray  quarries  and  splashed  on  the  pink  and  lilac,, 
lemon-yellow,  scarlet  and  orange  of  the  pot  plants, — 
hydrangeas,  pelargoniums,  and  early-flowering  chrysan- 
themums,— set,  three  deep,  along  the  base  of  the  house  wall, 
the  whole  length  of  the  terrace  front.  The  atmosphere  was 
thick.  Masses  of  purple  cloud,  lurid  light  crowning  their 
summits,  boiled  up  out  of  the  southeast.  But  the  worst  of 
the  storm  was  already  over,  and  the  parched  land,  grateful  for 
the  downpour  of  rain,  exhaled  a  whiteness  of  smoke — as  in 
thanksgiving  from  ofF  some  altar  of  incense.  On  the  grass 
slopes  of  the  near  park  a  flight  of  rooks  had  alighted.  They 
stalked  and  strode  over  the  withered  turf  with  a  self-impor- 
tant, quaintly  clerical  air,  seeking  provender,  but,  so  far,  find- 
ing  none,  since  the  moisture  had  not  yet  sufiiciently  penetrated 
the  hardened  soil  for  earth-worms  and  kindred  creeping- 
things  to  move  surfacewards. 

Within,  the  red  drawing-room  had  suffered  conspicuous 
change.  For,  on  Richard  moving  down-stairs  to  his  old  quar- 
ters  in  the  southwestern  wing  of  the  house,  Lady  Calmady 


THE  NEW  HEAVEN  AND  NEW  EARTH  629 

had  judged  it  an  act  of  love,  rather  than  of  desecration,  to 
restore  this  long-disused  apartment  to  its  former  employment. 
Adjoining  the  dining-room, — connecting  this  last  with  the 
billiard-room,  summer-parlour,  and  garden-hall, — this  room  was 
convenient  to  assemble  in  before,  and  sit  in  for  a  while  after, 
meals.  Richard  would  thereby  be  saved  superfluous  journeys 
up-stairs.  And  this  act  of  restitution,  which  was  also  in  a 
sense  an  act  of  penitence,  once  decided  upon,  Katherine  car- 
ried it  forward  with  a  certain  gentle  ardour,  renewing  crimson 
carpets  and  hangings  and  disposing  the  furniture  according  to 
its  long-ago  positions.  The  memory  of  what  had  once  been 
should  remain  forever  here  enshrined,  but  with  the  glad 
colours  of  life,  not  the  faded  ones  of  unforgiven  death  upon 
it.  It  satisfied  her  conscience  to  do  this.  For  it  appeared  to 
hey  that  so  very  much  of  good  had  been  granted  her  of  late, 
so  large  a  measure  of  peace  and  hope  vouchsafed  to  her,  that 
it  was  but  fitting  she  should  bear  testimony  to  her  awareness 
of  all  that  by  obliteration  of  the  last  outward  sign  of  the  re- 
bellion of  her  sorrowful  youth.  The  Richard  of  to-day, 
homestaying,  busy  with  much  kindness,  thoughtful  of  her 
comfort,  honouring  her  with  delicate  courtesies — which  to 
whoso  receives  them  makes  her  womanhood  a  privilege  rather 
than  a  burden — yet  teasing  her  not  a  little,  too,  in  the  security 
of  a  fair  and  equal  affection,  bore  such  moving  resemblance 
to  that  other  Richard,  first  master  of  her  heart,  that 
Katherine  could  afford  to  cancel  the  cruelty  of  certain  mem- 
ories, retaining  only  the  lovelier  portion  of  them,  and  could 
find  a  peculiar  sweetness  in  frequentation  of  this  room,  for- 
merly devoted  wholly  to  a  sense  of  injury  and  blackness  of 
hate. 

And  on  the  day  in  question,  Katherine's  presence  exhaled  a 
specially  tender  brightness,  even  as  the  thirsty  earth,  refreshed 
by  the  thunder  rain,  sent  up  a  rare  whiteness  as  of  incense 
smoke.  For  she  had  been  somewhat  anxious  about  Dickie  lately. 
To  her  sensitive  observation  of  him,  his  virtue,  his  evenness  of 
temper,  his  reasonableness,  had  come  to  have  in  them  a  pa- 
thetic element.  He  was  lovely  and  pleasant  in  his  ways.  But 
sometimes,  when  tired  or  off  his  guard,  she  had  surprised  an 
expression  on  his  face,  a  constrained  patience  of  speech,  even 
of  attitude,  which  made  her  fear  he  had  given  her  but  that 
half  of  his   confidence  calculated  to  cheer,  while  he  kept  the 


630  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

half  calculated  to  sadden  rather  rigorously  to  himself.  And, 
in  good  truth,  Richard  did  suffer  somewhat  at  this  period. 
The  first  push  of  enthusiastic  conviction  had  passed,  while 
his  new  manner  of  conduct  and  of  thought  had  not  yet  ac- 
quired the  stability  of  habit.  The  tide  was  low.  Shallows 
and  sand-bars  disclosed  themselves.  He  endured  the  tempta- 
tions arising  from  the  state  known  to  saintly  writers  as  "  spirit- 
ual dryness,"  and  found  those  temptations  of  an  inglorious 
and  wholly  unheroic  sort.  And,  though  he  held  his  peace, 
Katherine  feared  for  him — feared  that  the  way  he  elected  to 
walk  in  was  over-strait,  and  that,  though  resolution  would 
hold,  health  might  be  overstrained. 

"  My  darling,  you  never  grumble  now,"  she  had  said  to  him 
a  few  days  back. 

To  which  he  answered  : — 

"  Poor,  dear  mother,  have  I  cheated  you  of  one  of  your 
few,  small  pleasures  ?  Was  it  so  very  delightful  to  listen  to 
that  same  grumbling  ?  " 

"  I  begin  to  believe  it  was,"  Katherine  declared.  "  It  con- 
ferred a  unique  distinction  upon  me,  you  see,  because  I  had  a 
comfortable  conviction  you  grumbled  to  nobody  else.  One 
is  jealous  of  distinction.     Yes — I  think  I  miss  it,  Dickie." 

Whereupon  he  laughed  and  kissed  her,  and  swore  he'd 
grumble  fast  enough  if  there  was  anything — which  positively 
there  wasn't — to  grumble  about.  AH  of  which,  though  it 
charmed  Katherine,  appeased  her  anxiety  but  moderately. 
The  young  man  worked  too  hard.  His  opportunities  of 
amusement  were  too  scant.  Katherine  cast  about  in  thought, 
and  in  prayer,  for  some  lightening  of  his  daily  life,  even  if 
such  lightening  should  lessen  the  completeness  of  his  depend- 
ence upon  herself.  And  it  was  just  at  this  juncture  that  Miss 
St.  Qucntin  wrote  proposing  to  come  to  Brockhurst  for  a 
week.  She  had  not  been  there  since  the  Whitsuntide  recess. 
She  wrote  from  Ormiston,  where  she  was  staying  on  her  way 
south,  after  paying  a  round  of  country-house  visits  in  Scot- 
land. It  was  now  late  September.  She  would  probably  go 
to  Cairo  for  the  winter  with  young  Lady  Tobermory — grand- 
niece  by  marriage  of  her  late  godmother  and  benefactress— 
whose  lungs  were  pronounced  to  be  badly  touched.  Might 
she,  therefore,  come  to  Brockhurst  to  say  good-bye  ? 

And   to  this   proposed  visit   Richard  offered  no  opposition. 


THE  NEW  HEAVEN  AND  NEW  EARTH    631 

though  he  received  the  announcement  of  it  without  any 
marked  demonstration  of  pleasure. — Oh,  by  all  means  let  her 
come  !  Of  course  it  must  be  a  pleasure  to  his  mother  to 
have  her.  And  he'd  got  on  very  well  with  her  in  the  spring 
— unquestionably  he  had. — Richard's  expression  was  slightly 
ironical. — But  he  did  really  like  her? — Oh  dear,  yes,  he  liked 
her  exceedingly.  She  was  quite  curiously  clever,  and  she  was 
sincere,  and  she  was  rather  beautiful  too,  in  her  own  style — 
he  had  always  thought  that.  By  all  means  have  her. — After 
which  conversation  Richard  went  for  a  long  ride,  inspected 
cottages  in  building  at  Sandyfield,  visited  a  house,  undergoing 
extensive,  internal  alterations,  which  stands  back  from  Gierke's 
Green,  about  a  hundred  yards  short  of  Appleyard,  the  saddler's 
shop  at  Farley  Row.  He  came  in  late.  Unusual  silence 
held  him  during  dinner.  And  Lady  Calmady  took  herself  to 
task,  reproaching  herself  with  selfishness.  Honoria  was  very 
dear  to  her,  and  so,  only  too  probably,  she  had  overrated  the 
friendliness  of  Dickie's  attitude  towards  the  young  lady. 
But  they  had  seemed  to  get  on  so  extremely  well  in  the  spring, 
and  very  fairly  well  at  Whitsuntide  !  Yet,  perhaps,  in  that, 
as  in  so  much  else,  Richard  put  a  constraint  upon  himself, 
obeying  conscience  rather  than  inclination.  Katherine  was 
perturbed.  Nor  had  her  perturbations  suffered  diminution 
yesterday,  upon  Miss  St.  Quentin's  arrival.  Richard  remained 
unexpansive.  To-day,  however,  matters  had  improved.  Some- 
thing— possibly  the  thunderstorm — seemed  to  have  thawed 
his  coldness,  broken  up  his  reticence  of  manner.  Therefore 
Katherine  gave  thanks  and  moved  with  a  lighter  heart. 

As  for  Miss  St.  Quentin  herself,  an  innate  gladsomeness 
pervaded  her  aspect  not  easy  to  resist.  Lady  Calmady  had 
been  sensible  of  it  when  the  young  lady  first  greeted  her  that 
morning.  It  remained  by  her  now,  as  she  stood  after  lunch- 
eon at  one  of  the  open  windows,  watching  the  up-rolling 
thunder-cloud,  the  spattering  raindrops,  the  quaintly  solemn 
behaviour  of  the  stalking,  striding  rooks.  Honoria  was  easily 
entertained  to-day.  She  felt  well-disposed  towards  every  liv- 
ing creature.  And  the  rooks  diverted  her  extremely.  Pro- 
fanely they  reminded  her  of  certain  archiepiscopal  garden- 
parties,  with  this  improvement  on  the  human  variant,  that 
here  wives  and  daughters  also  were  condemned  to  decent 
sables  instead   of  being  at  liberty  to  array  themselves  accord- 


632  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

ing  to  self-Invented  canons  of  remarkably  defective  taste. 
But,  though  diverted,  it  must  be  owned  she  gave  her  attention 
the  more  closely  to  all  that  outward  drama  of  storm  and  rain 
and  to  the  antics  of  the  rooks,  because  she  was  very  con- 
scious of  the  fact  that  Richard  Calmady  had  followed  her  and 
lis  mother  into  the  red  drawing-room,  and  it  hurt  her — though 
she  had  now,  of  necessity,  witnessed  it  many  times — it  hurt, 
it  still  very  shrewdly  distressed  her,  to  see  him  walk.  As  she 
heard  the  soft  thud  and  shuffle  of  his  onward  progress,  fol- 
lowed by  the  little  clatter  of  the  crutches  as  he  laid  them 
upon  the  floor  beside  his  chair,  the  brightness  died  out  of 
Honoria's  face.  She  registered  sharp  annoyance  against  her>- 
self,  for  she  had  not  anticipated  that  this  would  continue  to 
affect  her  so  much.  She  supposed  she  had  grown  accustomed 
to  it  during  her  last  two  visits  to  Brockhurst,  and  that,  this 
time,  it  would  occasion  her  no  shock.  But  the  sadness  of  the 
young  man's  deformity  remained  present  as  ever.  The  in- 
dignity of  It  offended  her.  The  desire  by  some,  by  any, 
means  to  mitigate  the  woeful  circumscription  of  liberty  and 
opportunity  which  it  inflicted,  wrought  upon  her  almost  pam- 
fully.  And  so  she  looked  very  hard  at  the  hungry  anticking 
rooks,  both  to  secure  time  for  recovery  of  her  equanimity,  and 
also  to  spare  Richard  smallest  suspicion  that  she  avoided  be-* 
holding  his  advance  and  installation. 

"We  needn't  start  until  four,  mother,"  she  heard  him  say. 
'^  But  I'm  afraid  it  is  clearing." 

Honoria  turned  from  the  window- 

"  Yes,  it  is  clearing,"  she  remarked, '' incontestably  clear* 
ing !     You  won't  escape  the  Grimshott  function  after  all." 

"It's  a  nuisance  having  to  go,"  Richard  replied.  "But 
you  see  this  is  an  old  engagement.  People  are  wonderfully 
civil  and  kind.  I  wish  they  were  less  so.  They  waste  one's 
time.  But  it  doesn't  do  to  be  ungracious,  and  we  needn't 
stay  more  than  half  an  hour,  need  we,  mother  ?  " 

He  looked  up  at  Honoria. 

"  Don't  you  think,  on  the  whole,  you'd  better  come  too  ?  '* 
he  said. 

But  the  young  lady  shook  her  head  smilingly.  She  stood 
close  beside  Lady  Calmady. 

"  Oh  dear,  no,"  she  answered.  "  I  am  quite  absolutely 
certain  I  hadn't  better  come  too." 


THE  NEW  HEAVEN  AND  NEW  EARTH   633 

Richard  continued  to  look  up  at  her. 

"  Half  the  county  will  be  there.  Everything  will  be  richly^ 
comprehensively  dull.  Think  of  it.  Do  come,"  he  repeated,, 
"  it  would  be  so  good  for  your  soul." 

"  Oh,  my  soul's  in  the  humour  to  be  nobly  careless  of 
personal  advantage,"  Honoria  replied.  "  It*s  in  a  state  of 
almost  perilously  full-blown  optimism  regarding  the  security 
of  its  own  salvation  to-day,  somehow." — Her  glance  rested  \ 
very  sweetly  upon  Lady  Calmady. — ^^  And  then  all  the  rest  of 
me — and  not  impossibly  my  soul  has  a  word  to  say  in  that 
connection  too — cries  out  to  go  and  tramp  over  the  steaming 
turf  and  breathe  the  scent  of  the  fir  woods  again." 

Honoria  sat  down  lazily  on  the  arm  of  a  neighbouring  easy- 
chair,  against  the  crimson  cover  of  which  her  striped  blue-and- 
white,  shirting  dress  showed  excellently  distinct  and  clear. 
Richard's  prolonged  and  quiet  scrutiny  oppressed  her  slightly, 
necessitating  change  of  attitude  and  place. 

"  And  then,"  she  continued,  "  I  want  to  go  down  to  the 
paddocks  and  have  a  look  at  the  yearlings.  How  are  they 
coming  on  ?      Have  you  anything  good  ?  " 

"  Two  or  three  promising  fillies.     They're  in  the  paddock 
nearest  the  Long  Water.     You'll  find  them  as  quiet  as  sheep.  . 
But  I'll  ask  you  not  to  go  in  among  the  brood-mares  and  foals 
unless  Chifney   is   with  you.     They  may  be  a  bit  savage  and 
shy,  and  it  is  not  altogether  safe  for  a  lady." 

He  stretched  out  his  hand,  taking  Lady  Calmady's  hand  for 
a  moment. 

"  Dear  mother,  you  look  tired.     You'll  have  to  put  up  with 
Grimshott.     The  weather's  not  going  to  let  us  off.     Go  and  . 
rest  till  we  start." 

And  when,  a  few  minutes  later,  Katherlne,  departing,  closed  ' 
the  door  behind  her,  he  addressed  Miss  St.  Quentin  again. 

"  How  do  you  think  my  mother  is  ?  " 

"  Beautifully  well." 

"  Not  worried  ?  " 

"  No,"  Honoria  said. 

"  You  are  really  quite  contented  about  her,  then  ?  " 

The  question  both  surprised  and  touched  his  hearer  as  ; 
a  friendly  and  gracious  admission  that  she  possessed  certain  . 
rights. 

"Oh   dear,  yes,"  she  said.     "I  am  more  than  contented 


634  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

about  her.  No  one  can  fail  to  be  so  who,  loving  her,  sees  her 
now.  There  was  just  one  thing  she  wanted.  Now  she  has 
it,  and  so  all  is  well." 

"What  one  thing  ?  "  Dickie  asked,  with  a  hint  of  irony  in 
his  manner  and  his  voice. 

"  Why,  you — you,  Richard,"  Honoria  said. 

She  drew  herself  up  proudly,  a  little  alarmed  by,  a  little 
defiant  of,  the  directness  of  her  own  speech,  perceiving,  so 
soon  as  she  had  uttered  it,  that  it  might  be  construed  as  in- 
direct reproach.  And  to  administer  reproach  had  been  very  far 
from  her  purpose.  She  fixed  her  eyes  upon  the  domes  of  the 
great  oaks,  crowning  an  outstanding  knoll  at  the  far  end  of  the 
lime  avenue.  The  foliage  of  them,  deep  green  shading  to 
russet,  was  arrestingly  solid  and  metallic,  offering  a  rather 
magnificent  scheme  of  stormy  colour  taken  in  connection  with 
the  hot  purple  of  the  uprolling  cloud.  Framed  by  the  stone 
work  of  the  open  window,  the  whole  presented  a  fine  picture 
in  the  manner  of  Salvator  Rosa.  A  few,  bright  raindrops 
splashed  and  splattered,  and  the  thunder  growled  far  away  in 
the  north.  The  atmosphere  was  heavy.  For  a  time  neither 
spoke.     Then  Honoria  said,  gently,  as  one  asking  a  favour  : — 

"  Richard,  will  you  tell  me  about  that  home  of  yours  ? 
Cousin  Katherine  was  speaking  of  it  to  me  last  night." 

And  it  seemed  to  her  his  thought  must  have  journeyed  to 
some  far  distance,  and  found  difficulty  in  returning  thence,  it 
was  so  long  before  he  answered  her,  while  his  face  had  become 
set,  and  showed  colourless  as  wax  against  the  surrounding 
crimson  of  the  room. 

"  Oh,  the  home  !  "  he  exclaimed,  shrugging  his  shoulders  just 
perceptibly.  "  It  doesn't  amount  to  very  much.  My  mother 
in  her  dear  unwisdom  of  faith  and  hope  magnifies  the  value 
of  it.     It's  just  an  idle  man's  fad." 

"  A  fad  with  an  uncommon  amount  of  backbone  to  it, 
apparently." 

"  That  depends  on  its  eventual  success.  It's  a  thing  to  be 
judged  not  by  intentions  but  by  results." 

"  What  made  you  think  of  it  ?  " 

Richard  looked  full  at  her,  spreading  out  his  hands,  and 
again  shrugging  his  shoulders,  slightly.  Again  Miss  St. 
Quentin  accused  herself  of  a  defect  of  tact. 

"  Isn't  it  rather  obvious  why  I   should  think  of  it  ? "  he 


THE  NEW  HEAVEN  AND  NEW  EARTH  635: 

asked.  "  It  seemed  to  me  that,  in  a  very  mild  and  limited 
degree,  it  was  calculated  to  meet  a  want." — He  smiled  upon 
her,  quite  sweet-temperedly,  yet  once  more  there  was  a  flavour 
of  irony  in  his  tone. — "  Of  course  hideous  creatures  and  dis- 
abled creatures  are  an  eyesore.  We  pity,  but  we  look  the 
other  way.  I  quite  accept  that.  They  are  a  nuisance,  since 
they  are  a  standing  witness  to  the  fact  that  things  here  below,, 
very  far  from  always  work  smoothly  and  well,  and  that  there 
are  disasters  beyond  the  power  of  applied  science  to  put  right. 
The  ordinary  human  being  doesn't  covet  to  be  forcibly  re- 
minded of  that  by  means  of  a  living  object  lesson." 

Richard  shifted  his  position,  clasped  his  hands  behind  his; 
head.  He  had  begun  speaking  without  idea  of  self-revelation^ 
but  the  relief  of  speech,  after  long  self-repression,  took  him,, 
goading  him  on.  Old  strains  of  feeling,  kept  under  by  con- 
scious exercise  of  will,  asserted  themselves.  He  asked  neither 
sympathy  nor  help.  He  simply  called  from  off  those  shallows 
and  sand-bars  laid  bare  by  the  ebbing  tide  of  kis  first  enthusi- 
asm. He  protested,  wearied  by  the  spiritual  dryness  which 
had  caused  all  effort  to  prove  so  joyless  of  late.  To  have 
sought  relief  in  words  before  his  mother  would  have  been  un- 
pardonable, he  held.  She  had  borne  enough  from  him  in  the 
past,  and  more  than  enough.  But  to  permit  it  himself  in  the 
presence  of  this  young,  strong,  capable  woman  of  the  world^ 
was  very  different.  She  came  out  of  the  swing  of  society  and 
of  affairs,  of  large  interests  in  politics  and  m  thought.  She 
would  go  back  into  those  again  very  shortly^  so  what  did  it 
matter  ?  She  captivated  him  and  incensed  him  alike.  His  re- 
lation to  her  had  been  so  fertile  of  contradictions — at  once 
singularly  superficial  and  fugitive,  and  singularly  vital.  He 
did  not  care  to  analyse  his  own  feelings  in  respect  of  her. 
He  had,  so  he  told  himself,  never  quite  cared  to  do  that.  She 
had  wounded  his  pride  shrewdly  at  times,  still  he  had  un- 
questioning faith  in  her  power  of  comprehending  his  meaning: 
as  she  sat  there,  graceful,  long-limbed,  indolent,  in  her  pale 
dress,  looking  towards  the  window,  the  light  on  her  face  re- 
vealing the  fine  squareness  of  the  chiselling  of  her  profile,  of 
her  jaw,  her  nostril,  and  brow.  She  appeared  so  free  of  spirit^ 
so  untrammeled,  so  excellently  exalted  above  all  that  is  wcak^ 
craven,  smirched  by  impurity,  capable  of  baseness  and  deceit  \ 

"  But  naturally  with  me  the  case  is  different/'  he  went  onj» 


636  '      SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

his  voice  growing  deeper,  his  utterance  more  measured.  "It 
is  futile  to  resent  being  reminded  of  that  which,  in  point  of 
fact,  you  never  forget.  It's  childish  for  the  pot  to  call  the 
kettle  black.  And  so  I  came  to  the  conclusion,  a  few  months 
ago,  to  put  away  all  such  childishness,  and  set  myself  to  gain 
whatever  advantage  I  could  from — well — from  my  own  black- 


ness." 


Honoria  turned  her  head,  averting  her  face  yet  further. 
Richard  could  only  see  the  outline  of  her  cheek.  She  had 
never  before  heard  him  make  so  direct  allusion  to  his  own 
deformity,  and  it  frightened  her  a  little.  Her  heart  beat 
curiously  quick.  For  it  was  to  her  as  though  he  compelled 
her  to  draw  near  and  penetrate  a  region  in  which,  gazing 
thitherward  questioningly  from  afar,  she  had  divined  the 
residence  of  stern  and  intimate  miseries,  inalienable,  unre- 
mittent,  taking  their  rise  in  an  almost  alarming  distance  of 
time  and  fundamentality  of  cause. 

"  You  see,  in  plain  English,"  he  said,  "  I  look  at  all  such 
unhappy  beings  from  the  inside,  not,  as  the  rest  of  you  do, 
merely  from  the  out.  I  belong  to  them  and  they  to  me.  It 
is  not  an  altogether  flattering  connection.  Only  recently,  I 
am  afraid,  have  I  had  the  honesty  to  acknowledge  it  !  But, 
having  once  done  so,  it  seems  only  reasonable  to  look  up  the 
members  of  my  unlucky  family  and  take  care  of  them,  and  if 
possible  put  them  through — not  on  the  lines  of  a  charitable 
institution,  which  must  inevitably  be  a  rather  mechanical, 
stepmother  kind  of  arrangement  at  best,  but  on  the  lines  of 
family  affection,  of  personal  friendship." 

He  paused  a  moment. 

"  Does  that  strike  you  as  too  unpractical  and  fantastic,  con- 
trary to  sound,  philanthropic  principle  and  practice  ?  " 

Honoria  shook  her  head. 

^'  It  is  based  on  a  higher  law  than  any  of  modern  organised 
philanthropy,"  she  said,  and  her  voice  had  a  queer  unsteadiness 
in  it.  "  It  goes  back  to  the  Gospels — to  the  matter  of  giving 
your  life  for  your  friend." 

As  she  spoke,  Honoria  rose.  She  went  across  and  stood  at 
the  window.  Furtively  she  dabbed  her  pocket  handkerchief 
against  her  eyes. 

"  Well,  after  all,  one  must  give  one's  life  for  something  or 
other,  you  know,"  Dickie  remarked,  "  or  the  d^s  would  be- 


THE  NEW  HEAVEN  AND  NEW  EARTH  637 

come    a    little    too    intolerably   dull,  and  then  one  might  be 
tempted  to  make  short  work  of  life  altogether/ 

Honoria  returned  to  her  chair  and  sat  down — this  time  not 
on  the  arm  of  it  but  in  ordinary  conventional  fashion.  She 
faced  Richard.  He  observed  that  her  eyelids  were  slightly 
swollen,  slightly  red.  This  gave  an  extraordinary  effect  of 
gentleness  to  her  expression. 

"  How  do  you  find  them — the  members  of  your  sad  family  ?  '* 
she  asked. 

"  Oh,  in  all  sorts  of  ways  and  of  places  !  Knott  swears  it 
is  contrary  to  reason,  an  interfering  with  the  beneficent 
tendency  of  nature  to  kill  off  the  unfit.  Yet  he  works  like  a 
horse  to  help  me — even  talks  of  giving  up  his  practice  and 
moving  to  Farley  Row,  so  as  to  be  near  the  headquarters  of 
my  establishment.  The  lease  of  a  rather  charming,  old  house 
there  fell  in  this  year.  Fortunately  the  tenant  did  not  want 
to  renew,  so  I  am  having  that  made  comfortable  for  them/* 

Richard  smiled.  A  greater  sense  of  well-being  animated 
him.  Out  of  the  world  she  had  come,  back  into  the  world 
she  would  go  again.  Meanwhile  she  was  nobly  fair  to  look 
upon,  she  was  pure  of  heart,  intercourse  with  her  made  for  the 
justification  of  high  purposes  and  unselfish  experiment — so  he 
thought. 

"  I  am  growing  as  keen  on  bagging  a  fine  cripple  as  another 
man  might  on  bagging  a  fine  tiger,"  he  said.  "  The  whole 
matter  at  bottom,  I  suspect,  turns  on  the  instinct  of  sport. 
— Only  the  week  before  last  I  acquired  a  rather  terribly 
superior  specimen.  A  lad  of  eighteen,  a  factory  hand  in  West- 
church.  He  was  caught  by  some  loose  gearing  and  swept 
into  the  machinery.  What  is  left  of  him — if  it  survives,, 
which  it  had  much  better  not,  and  I  can't  help  hoping  it  will,, 
he  is  such  a  plucky,  sweet-natured  fellow — will  require  a  nurse- 
for  the  rest  of  its  life.  So  I  am  pushing  on  the  work  at  f^arleyy, 
that  the  home  may  be  ready  when  we  get  him  out  of  hospitaL 
— By  the  way,  I  must  go  to-morrow  and  stir  up  the  workmen.. 
Do  you  care  to  come  and  see  it  all,  if  the  afternoon  is  fine  and 
not  too  hot  ?  " 

And  Honoria  agreed.  Nor  did  she  shrink  when  Richard 
slipping  out  of  his  chair  picked  up  his  crutches. — "  I  suppose 
it  is  about  time  to  get  ready  for  the  Grimshott  function,"  he^ 
said. — She  walked  beside  him  to  the  door,  opened  it  and  passed 


^38  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

into  the  neutral-tinted,  tapestry-hung  dining-room.  There 
the  young  man  waited  a  moment.  He  looked  not  at  her  but 
straight  before  him. 

"  Honoria,"  he  said  suddenly,  almost  harshly,  "you  and 
Helen  de  Vallorbes  used  to  be  great  friends.  For  more  than 
a  year  I  have  held  no  communication  with  her,  except  through 
my  lawyers.     Can  you  tell  me  anything  about  her  ?  " 

Miss  St.  Quentin  hesitated. 

"Nothing  very  direct — I  heard  from  de  Vallorbes  about 
three  months  ago.  I  don't  think  I  am  faithless — Indeed  I 
held  on  to  her  as  long  as  I  could,  Richard  !  I  am  not 
squeamish,  and  then  I  always  prefer  to  stand  by  the  woman. 
But  whatever  de  Vallorbes  may  have  been,  he  pulled  himself 
together  rather  admirably  from  the  time  he  went  into  the  army. 
He  wanted  to  keep  straight  and  to  live  respectably.  And — I 
hate  to  say  so — but  she  treated  him  a  little  too  flagrantly. 
And  then — and  then " 

Honoria  put  her  hands  over  her  eyes  and  shook  back  her 
head  angrily. 

"  It  wasn't  one  man,  Richard." 

Dickie  went  white  to  the  lips. 

"  I  know  that,"  he  said. 

He  moved  forward  a  few  steps. 

"  Who  is  it  now  ?     Destournelle  ?  " 

"  Oh  no — no  " — Honoria  said.  "  Some  Russian — from  the 
-extreme  east — Kazan,  I  think — prince,  millionaire,  drunken 
savage.  But  he  adores  her.  He  squanders  money  upon  her, 
surrounds  her  with  barbaric  state.  This  is  de  Vallorbes'  ver- 
sion of  the  affair.  The  scandal  is  open  and  notorious.  But 
she  and  her  prince  together  have  great  power.  Something 
will  eventually  be  arranged  in  the  way  of  a  marriage.  She 
will  not  come  back." 


THE  NEW  HEAVEN  AND  NEW  EARTH  639 


CHAPTER  IX  ^ 

TELLING     HOWj   LUDOVIC    QUAYLE    AND    HONORIA    ST.    QUENTIN 
WATCHEI^    THE    TROUT    RISE    IN    THE    LONG    WATER 

i 

Come  hourland  a  half  later  Miss  St.  Quentin  passed  down 
^  the  flight  pf  stone  steps,  leading  from  the  southern  end  of 
the  terrace  to  i  the  grass  slopes  of  the  park.  Arrived  at  the 
lowest  step  sh?  gathered  the  skirt  of  her  dress  up  over  one 
arm,  thereby  securing  greater  freedom  of  movement,  and  dis- 
playing a  straidbt  length  of  pink  and  white  petticoat.  Thus 
prepared  she  f^ed  forth  over  the  still  smoking  turf.  The 
storm  had  passed,  but  the  atmosphere  remained  thick  and 
humid.  A  certain  opulence  of  colour  obtained  in  the  land- 
scape. The  hejbs  in  the  grass,  wild-thyme,  wild-balm,  and 
star-flowered  caiiomile,  smelt  strongly  aromatic  as  she  trod 
them  under  foot,  while  the  beds  of  bracken,  dried  and  yellowed 
by  the  drought,  jave  off  a  sharp,  woody  scent. 

Usually,  wherl  thus  alone  and  in  contact  with  nature,  such 
matters  claimed  iHonoria's  whole  attention,  ministering  to  her 
love  of  earth-lot  and  of  Mother  Earth — producing  in  her 
silent  worship  C  those  primitive  deities  who  at  once  preside 
over  and  inhabit  he  waste-land  and  the  tilth,  the  untamed  for- 
est and  the  pastues  where  heavy-uddered,  sweet-breathed  cows, 
lie  in  the  deep,  readow  grass,  the  garden  ground,  all  pleasant, 
orchard  places,  ad  the  broad  promise  of  the  waving  crops. 
But  this  afterno  n,  although  the  colour,  odour,  warmth,  and 
all  the  many  voii^s  praising  the  refreshment  of  the  rain,  were 
sensibly  present  to  her,  Honoria's  thought  failed  to  be  en- 
grossed by  them,  f  or  she  was  in  process  of  worshipping  younger 
and  more  companionate  deities,  sadder,  because  more  human, 
ones,  whose  offi ;  lies  not  with  Nature  in  her  eternal  repose 
and  fecundity  bi:  with  man  in  his  eternal  failure  and  unrest. 
Not  august  Cere,  giver  of  the  golden  harvest-fields,  or  fierce 
Cybele,  the  god  ess  of  the  many  paps,  but  spare,  brown- 
habited  St.  Fran^  serving  his  brethren  with  bleeding  hands 
and  feet,  held  eipire  over  her  meditations. — In  imagination 


640  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

she  saw — saw  with  only  too  lively  realisation  of  detail — that 
•eighteen-year-old  lad,  in  the  factory  at  Westchurch,  drawn 
up — all  the  unspent  hopes  and  pleasures  of  his  young  man- 
hood active  in  him — by  the  loose  gearing,  into  the  merciless 
vortex  of  revolving  wheels,  and  there,  without  preparation, 
without  pause  of  warning,  without  any  dignity  of  shouting 
multitude,  of  arena  or  of  stake,  martyred — converted  in  a  few 
horrible  seconds  from  health  and  wholeness  into  a  formless 
lump  of  human  waste.  And  up  and  down  the  land,  as  she 
reflected,  wherever  the  great  systems  of  trade  and  labour, 
which  build  up  the  mechanical  and  material  prosperity  of  our 
day,  go  forward,  kindred  things  happen — let  alcne  question  of 
all  those  persons  who  are  born  into  the  world  ilready  injured, 
«or  bearing  the  seeds  of  foul  and  disfiguring  ciseases  in  their 
organs  and  their  blood. — Verily  Richard  Calm^dy's  sad  family 
was  a  rather  terribly  large  one,  well  calculatec  to  maintain  its 
numbers,  even  to  increase  !  For  neither  thi  z^q  of  human 
sacrifice  nor  of  cannibalism  is  really  over,  ncr  is  the  practice 
of  these  limited  to  savage  peoples  in  distant  Imds  or  far-away 
isles  of  the  sea.  They  form  the  basis  actuall/,  though  in  dif- 
fering of  outward  aspect,  of  all  existing  civlisations,  just  as 
they  formed  the  basis  of  all  past  civilisation: — a  basis,  more- 
over, perpetually  recemented  and  relaid.  Ani,  as  she  consid- 
•ered — being  courageous  and  fair-minded — r  w^as  inevitable 
that  this  should  be  so,  unthinkable  that  it  shoild  be  otherwise, 
^since  it  made,  at  least  indirectly,  for  the  prosprity  of  the  ma- 
jority and  development  of  the  race. — Ccisidering  which 
— the  apparently  cruel  paradox  and  irony  of  it — Honoria 
swung  down  past  the  scattered  hawthorns,  hick  with  ruddy 
fruit,  across  the  fragrant  herbs  and  short,  svL»et  turf,  through 
the  straggling  fern-brakes,  which  impeded  he  progress,  pluck- 
ing at  her  skirts,  careless  of  the  rich  colour  nd  ample  beauty 
outspread  before  her. 

But  soon,  as  a  bird  after  describing  far-rarxing  circles  drops 
at  hst  upon  the  from  at-first-determined  spc,  so  her  thought 
seltled  down,  with  relief  yet  in  a  way  unwlingly — and  that 
not  out  of  any  lingering  repulsion,  but  rathr  from  a  certain 
proud  modesty  and  self-respect — upon  Richrd  Calmady  him- 
self. Not  only  did  he  apprehend  all  this/ar  more  clearly, 
more  intimately,  than  she  could. — Had  he  nt  spoken  of  the 
advantages  of  a  certain  blackness  ?— Honori's  vision  became 


THE  NEW  HEAVEN  AND  NEW  EARTH    641 

somewhat  indistinct. — But  he  set  out  to  deal  with  it  in  a  prac- 
tical manner.  And  in  this  connection  she  began  to  understand 
how  it  had  come  about  that  through  years  of  ingratitude  and 
neglect,  and  of  loose-living,  on  his  part,  his  mother  could  stili 
remain  patient,  could  endure,  and  supremely  love.  For  be- 
hind the  obvious,  the  almost  coarse,  tragedy  and  consequent 
appeal  of  the  man's  deformity,  there  was  the  further  appeal  of 
something  very  admirable  in  the  man  himself,  for  the  emer- 
gence and  due  blossoming  of  which  it  would  be  very  possible,, 
very  worth  while,  for  whoso  once  recognised  its  existence  to- 
wait.  John  Knott  had  been  right  in  his  estimate  of  Richards 
Ludovic  Quayle  had  been  right.  Lady  Calmady  had  beert 
right. — Honoria  had  begun  to  believe  that,  even  before  Richard 
had  come  forth  from  his  self-imposed  seclusion,  in  the  spring. 
The  belief  had  increased  during  her  subsequent  intercourse 
with  him,  had  been  reinforced  during  her  few  days'  visit  at 
Whitsuntide.  Yet,  until  now,  she  had  never  freely  and  openly 
admitted  it.  She  wondered  why  ?  And  then  hastily  she  put 
such  wondering  from  her.  Again  a  certain  proud  modesty 
held  her  back.  She  did  not  want  to  think  of  herself  in  rela- 
tion to  him,  or  of  him  in  relation  to  herself.  She  wished,  for 
a  reason  she  refused  to  define,  to  exclude  the  personal  elements 
Doing  that  she  could  permit  herself  larger  latitude  of  admira- 
tion. His  acknowledgment  of  fellowship  with,  and  obliga- 
tion of  friendship  towards,  all  victims  of  physical  disaster 
kindled  her  enthusiasm.  She  perceived  that  it  was  contrary  ta 
the  man's  natural  arrogance,  natural  revolt  against  the  humili- 
ation put  upon  him — a  rather  superb  overcoming,  in  shoEt,^of 
nature  by  grace.  Nor  was  it  the  outgrowth  of  any  morbid  of 
sentimental  emotion.  It  had  no  tincture  of  the  hysteric  ele- 
ment. It  took  its  rise  in  conviction  and  in  experiment.  For 
Richard,  though  still  young,  struck  her  as  remarkably  mature^ 
He  had  lived  his  life,  sinned  his  sins — she  did  not  doubt  that — 
suffered  unusual  sorrows,  bought  his  experience  in  the  open 
market  and  at  a  sufficiently  high  price.  And  this  was  the  re- 
sult !  It  pleased  her  imagination  by  its  essential  unworldli- 
ness,  its  idealism  and  individuality  of  outlook.  She  went 
back  on  her  earlier  judgment  of  him,  first  formulated  as  a 
complaint, — he  was  strong,  whether  for  good  or  evil — now 
unselfishly  for  good — and  Honoria,  being  herself  among  the 
strong,  supremely  valued  and  welcomed  strengths     And  sa  it 


642  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

happened  that  the  tone  of  her  meditations  altered,  being  in- 
creasingly attuned  to  a  serious,  but  very  real  congratulation. 
For  she  perceived  that  the  tragedy  of  human  life  also  consti- 
tutes the  magnificence  of  human  life,  since  it  affords,  and  al- 
ways must  afford,  supreme  opportunity  of  heroism. 

She  had  traversed  the  open  space  of  turf,  and  come  to  the 
tall,  iron  hurdles  enclosing  the  paddock.  She  folded  her  arms 
on  the  topmost  bar  of  the  iron  gate  and  stood  there.  She 
wanted  to  rest  a  little  in  these  thoughts  that  had  come  to  her. 
She  was  not  quite  sure  of  them  as  yet.  But,  if  they  meant 
anything,  if  they  were  other  than  mere  rhetoric,  they  must 
mean  a  very  great  deal,  into  harmony  with  which  it  would  be 
necessary  to  bring  her  thought  upon  many  other  subjects. 
She  was  conscious  of  an  excitement,  a  reaching  out  towards 
some  but-half-disclosed  glory,  some  new  and  very  exquisite 
fulness  of  life.  But  was  it  new,  after  all  ?  Was  it  not 
rather  the  at-last-permitted  activity  of  faculties  and  sensi- 
bilities hitherto  refused  development,  voluntarily,  perhaps 
cowardly,  held  in  check  and  repressed  ?  She  appeared  to  be 
making  acquaintance  with  unexpected  depths  of  apprehension 
and  emotion  in  herself.  And  this,  for  cause  unknown,  brought 
her  into  more  lively  commerce  with  her  immediate  surround- 
ings and  the  sentiment  of  them.  Her  eyes  rested  on  them 
questioningly,  as  though  they  might  afford  a  tally  to,  perhaps 
an  explanation  of,  the  strange,  yet  lovely  emotion  which  had 
invaded  her. 

Here  in  the  valley,  notwithstanding  the  recent  drought,  the 
grass  was  lush.  Across  the  paddock,  just  within  the  circuit 
of  the  far  railings,  a  grove  of  large  beech  trees  broke  the  ex- 
panse of  living  green.  Beyond,  seen  beneath  their  down- 
sweeping  branches,  the  surface  of  the  Long  Water  repeated 
the  hot  purple,  the  dun-colour  and  silver-pink,  of  the  sky. 
On  the  opposite  slope,  extending  from  the  elm  avenue  to  the 
outlying  masses  of  the  woods  and  upward  to  the  line  of  oaks 
which  run  parallel  with  the  park  palings,  were  cornlands. 
The  wheat,  a  red-gold,  was  already  for  the  most  part  bound 
in  shocks.  A  company  of  women,  wearing  lilac  and  pink 
sunbunnets  and  all-round,  blue,  linen  aprons  faded  by  frequent 
washing  to  a  fine  clearness  of  tone,  came  down  over  the  blond 
stubble.  They  carried,  in  little  baskets  and  shining  tins,  tea 
for  the  white-shirted  harvesters  who  were  busy  setting  up  the 


THE  NEW  HEAVEN  AND  NEW  EARTH    643 

storm-fallen  sheaves.  They  laughed  and  talked  together,  and 
their  voices  came  to  Honoria  u^ith  a  pleasant  quality  of  sound. 
Tu^o  stumbling  baby-children,  hand  in  hand,  followed  them, 
as  did  a  small,  white-and-tan,  spotted  dog.  One  woman  was 
bareheaded  and  wore  a  black  bodice,  which  gave  a  singular 
value  to  her  figure  amid  the  all-obtaining  yellow  of  the  corn. 

The  scene  in  its  simple  and  homely  charm  held  the  poetry 
of  that  happier  side  of  labour,  of  that  most  ancient  of  all  in- 
dustries— the  husbandman's — and  of  the  generous  giving  of 
the  soil.  Set  in  a  frame  of  opulently  coloured  woodland  and 
sky,  the  stately  red-brick  and  freestone  house  crowning  the 
high  land  and  looking  forth  upon  it  all,  the  whole  formed,  to 
Honoria's  thinking,  a  very  noble  picture.  And  then,  of  a 
sudden,  in  the  midst  of  her  quiet  enjoyment  of  it  and  a  ten- 
derness which  the  sight  of  it  somehow  begot  in  her,  Honoria 
was  seized  by  sharp,  unreasoning  regret  that  she  must  so 
soon  leave  it.  Unreasoning  regret  that  she  had  engaged  to 
go  abroad  this  winter,  with  poor,  pretty,  frivolous,  young  Lady 
Tobermory — spoilt  child  of  society  and  of  wealth — now  half- 
crazed,  rendered  desperate,  by  the  fear  that  disease,  which  had 
laid  a  threatening  finger  on  her,  might  lay  its  whole  hand  cut- 
ting short  her  playtime  and  breaking  her  many  toys.  Of  any- 
thing other  than  toys  and  playtime  she  had  no  conception. — 
'^  Those  brutes  of  doctors  tell  Tobermory  I  must  give  up  low 
gowns,"  she  wrote.  "  And  I  adore  my  neck  and  shoulders. 
Every  one  always  has  admired  them.  It  makes  me  utterly 
miserable  to  cover  them  up.  And  now  that  I  am  thinner  I 
could  have  my  gowns  cut  lower  than  ever,  nearly  down  to  my 
waist,  which  makes  it  all  the  more  intolerable.  I ;  went  to 
Dessaix  about  it,  went  over  to  Paris  on  purpose,  though 
Tobermory  was  wild  at  my  traveling  in  the  heat.  He — Des- 
saix, I  mean,  not  poor  T. — was  just  as  nice  as  possible,  and 
promised  to  invent  new  styles.  Still,  of  course,  I  must  look 
dowdy  at  night  in  a  high  gown.  Everybody  does.  I  shall 
feel  exactly  like  our  clergyman's  wife  at  Ellerhay,  when  she 
comes  to  dine  with  us  at  Christmas  and  Easter  and  once  in 
the  summer.  I  refuse  to  have  her  oftener  than  that.  She 
has  a  long  back  and  about  fourteen  children,  which  she  seems 
to  think  a  great  credit  to  her.  I  don't,  as  they  are  uglv,  and 
she  is  dreadfullv  poor.  She  wears  her  Sunday  silk  with  lace 
wound  about,  don't  you  know,  but  wound  tight.     That  means 


644  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

full  dress.  I  am  buying  some  lace,  Duchesse  at  three  and  a 
half  guineas  a  yard.  I  suppose  I  shall  come  to  winding  that 
•of  an  evening.  Then  I  shall  look  like  her.  It  makes  me 
•cry  dreadfully,  and,  as  I  tell  Tobermory,  that  is  worse  for  me 
than  any  number  of  lungs.  Darling  H.,  if  you  really  love 
«nc  in  the  least,  bring  nothing  but  high  gowns.  Perhaps  I 
(mayn't  mind  quite  so  much  if  I  never  see  you  in  a  low  one.'* 
— There  had  been  much  more  to  the  same  effect,  pathetic  in 
its  rnadeqaiacy  and  egoism.  Only,  as  Honoria  reflected,  that  is  a 
:style  of  pathos  dangerously  liable  to  pall  upon  one.  She 
•.sighed,  for  the  prospect  of  spending  the  winter  participating 
in  the  frivolities,  and  striving  to  restrain  the  indiscretions  of 
this  little,  damaged  butterfly,  did  not  smile  upon  her.  She 
might  have  stayed  on  here,  stayed  on  at  Brockhurst,  worked 
over  the  dear  place  as  she  had  so  often  done  before — helping 
Lady  Calmady.  Why  had  she  promised  ? — Well — because 
she  had  been  rather  restless,  unsettled,  and  at  loose  ends  of 
late 

Whereupon  the  young  lady  bent  down  and  unfastened  the 
padlock  with  a  certain  decision  of  movement,  closed  the  gate, 
relocking  it  carefully  behind  her,  and  started  off  across  the 
deep  grass  of  the  paddock,  her  pale  face  very  serious,  her 
small  head  held  high.  She  would  keep  faith  with  Evelyn 
Tobermory.  Of  course  she  would  keep  faith  with  her.  It 
was  not  only  a  matter  of  honour,  but  of  expediency.  It  was 
much,  very  much  better  to  go.  Yet  whence  this  sudden  heat 
proceeded,  and  why  the  Egyptian  journey  assumed  suddenly 
such  paramount  desirability,  she  carefully  did  not  stay  to  in- 
quire— an  omission  not,  perhaps,  without  significance. 

The  half-dozen  dainty  fillies,  meanwhile,  who  had  eyed  her 
shyly  from  their  station  beneath  the  beech  trees,  trotted  gently 
towards  her  with  friendly  whinnyings,  their  fine  ears  pricked, 
their  long  tails  carried  well  away  in  a  sweeping  curve.  Ho- 
noria went  on  to  meet  them.  She  was  glad  of  something  to 
-occupy  her  hands,  some  outside,  concrete  thing  to  occupy  her 
thought.  She  took  the  foremost,  a  dark  bay,  by  the  nose  strap 
<)f  its  kather  head-stall,  patted  the  beast's  sleek  neck,  looked 
ante  its  prominent,  heavy-lidded  eyes, — the  blue  film  over  the 
Tclvct-like  iris  and  pupil  of  them  giving  a  singular  softness  of 
<ffect, — drew  down  the  fine,  aristocratic  head,  and  kissed  the 
little  >star  where  the  hair  turned  in  the  centre  of  the  smooth. 


THE  NEW  HEAVEN  AND  NEW  EARTH  645 

hard  forehead.  It  was  as  perfectly  bred  as  she  was  herself — 
so  clean,  so  fresh,  that  to  touch  it  was  wholly  pleasant !  Then 
she  backed  away  from  it,  holding  it  at  arm's-length,  noting 
how  every  line  of  its  limbs  and  body  was  graceful  and  har- 
monious, full  of  the  purpose  of  easy  strength,  easy  freedom 
of  movement.  That  it  was  a  trifle  blown  out  in  barrel,  from 
being  at  grass,  only  gave  its  contours  an  added  suavity.  It 
was  a  lovely  beast,  a  delicious  beast !  Honoria  smiled  upoa 
it,  talked  to,  patted  and  coaxed  it.  While  another  young 
beauty,  waxing  brave,  pushed  its  black  muzzle  under  her  arm,, 
and  lipped  at  her  jacket  pockets  in  search  of  bread  and  of 
apples.  And,  these  good  things  once  discovered^  the  rest  ©f 
the  drove  came  about  her,  civilly,  a  trifle  proudly,,  as  befitted 
such  fine  ladies,  with  no  pushings  and  bustlings  of  vulgar 
greed.  And  they  charmed  her.  She  was  very  much  at  one 
with  them.  She  fed  them  fearlessly,  thrusting  one  aside  in 
favour  of  another,  giving  each  reward  in  due  turn.  She 
passed  her  hands  down  over  their  slender  limbs.  The  warm 
colours  and  the  gloss  of  them  were  pleasant  to  her  eyes.  And 
they  smelt  sweet,  as  did  the  trampled  grass  beneath  their  un- 
shod hoofs.  For  a  while  the  human  problem — its  tragedy^ 
magnificence,  inadequacy  alike — ceased  to  trouble  her.  The 
poetry  of  these  beautiful,  innocent,  clean-feeding  beasts  was^ 
for  the  moment,  sufficient  in  and  by  itself. 

But,  even  while  she  thus  played  with  and  rejoiced  in  them, 
remembrance  of  their  owner  came  back  to  her,  his  maiming, 
as  against  their  perfection  of  finish,  the  lamentable  disparity 
between  his  physical  equipment  and  theirs.  Honoria's  ex- 
pression lost  its  nonchalant  gaiety.  She  pushed  her  gentle, 
equine  comrades  away  to  left  and  right,  not  that  they  ceased 
to  please  but  that  the  human  problem  and  the  tragedy  of  it 
once  more  became  dominant.  She  walked  on  across  the  pad- 
dock rapidly,  while  the  fillies,  forming  up  behind  her,  followed 
in  single  file  treading  a  sinuous  pathway  through  the  grass, 
the  foremost  one  still  pushing  its  black  muzzle,  now  and 
again,  under  her  elbow  and  nibbling  insinuatingly  at  her 
empty  jacket  pockets. — If  only  that  horrible   misfortune  had 

not  befallen  Richard  Calmady  !      If — if .    But  then,  had 

it  not  befallen  him,  would  he  ever  have  been  excited  to  so  ad- 
mirable efix)rt,  would  he  ever  have  attained  so  absorbing  and 
vigorous  a  personality  as  he  actualJy  had  ?     Again  her  thought 


640  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

turned  on  itself,  to  provocation  of  momentary  impatience.— 
Honoria  unfastened  the  second  padlock  with  a  return  of  her 
former  decision. — There  were  conclusions  she  wished  in- 
stinctively to  avoid,  from  which  she  instinctively  desired  es- 
cape. She  forced  aside  the  all-too-affectionate,  bay  filly  who 
crowded  upon  her,  shot  back  the  bar  of  the  gate  and  relocked 
it.  Then,  once  again,  she  kissed  the  pretty  beast  on  the  fore- 
head as  it  stretched  its  neck  over  the  top  of  the  gate. 

"  Good-bye,  dear  lass,"  she  said.  "  Win  your  races  and, 
when  the  time  comes,  drop  foals  as  handsome  as  yourself,  and 
thank  your  stars  you're  under  orders,  and  so  have  small  chance 
to  muddle  your  affairs — as  with  your  good  looks,  my  dear,  you 
most  assuredly  would — like  all  the  rest  of  us." 

With  which  excellent  advice  she  swung  away  down  the  last 
twenty  yards  of  the  avenue  and  out  on  to  the  roadway  of  the 
red-brick  and  freestone  bridge.  Here,  in  the  open  above  the 
water,  the  air  was  sensibly  fresher.  From  the  paddock  the 
deserted  fillies  whinnied  to  her.  The  voices  of  the  harvesters 
came  cheerily  from  the  cornland.  The  men  sat  in  the  blond 
stubble,  backed  by  a  range  of  upstanding  sheaves.  The 
women,  bright  in  those  frail  blues,  clear  pinks,  and  lilacs, 
knelt  serving  their  meal.  She  of  the  black  bodice  stood  apart, 
her  hands  upon  her  hips,  looking  towards  the  bridge  and  its 
solitary  occupant.  The  tan-and-white,  spotted  dog  ran  to  and 
fro  chasing  field-mice  and  yapped.  The  baby  children  stag- 
gered after  it,  uttering  excited  squeakings  and  cries.  The 
lower  cloud  had  parted  in  the  west,  disclosing  an  upper 
stratum  of  pale  gold,  which  widened  upward  and  outward  as 
the  minutes  passed.  Save  immediately  below,  in  the  shadow 
of  the  bridge,  this  found  reflection  in  the  water,  overlaying  it 
as  with  the  blond  of  the  stubble  and  warmer  tones  of  the 
sheaves.  Honoria  sat  down  sideways  on  the  coping  of  the 
parapet.  She  watched  the  moor-hens,  dark  of  plumage,  a 
splash  of  fiery  orange  on  their  jaunty,  little  heads,  swim  out 
with  restless,  jerky  motion  from  the  edge  of  the  reed-beds  and 
break  up  the  shining  surface  with  diverging  lines  of  rippling, 
brown  shadow.  In  the  shade  cast  by  the  bridge,  trout  rose  at 
the  dancing  gnats  and  flies.  She  could  see  them  rush  upward 
through  the  brown  water.  Sometimes  they  leapt  clear  of 
it,  exposing  their  silver  bellies,  pink-spotted  sides,  and  the 
olive-green    of  their   backs.      They    dropped    again    with    a 


THE  NEW  HEAVEN  AND  NEW  EARTH  647 

flop,  and  rings  circled  outward  from  the  place  of  their  disap- 
pearing. 

All  this  Honoria  saw,  but  dreamily,  pensively.  She  realised, 
as  never  before,  that,  much  as  she  might  love  this  place  and 
the  life  of  it,  she  was  a  guest  only,  a  pilgrim  and  sojourner. 
The  completeness  of  her  own  independence  ceased  to  please. 
— "  Me  this  unchartered  freedom  tires."  As  she  quoted  the 
line,  Honoria  smiled.  These  were,  indeed,  new  aspects  of 
herself!  Where  would  they  carry  her,  both  in  thought  and 
in  action  ?  It  was  a  little  alarming  to  contemplate  that. 
And  then  her  pensiveness  increased,  a  strange  nostalgia  taking 
her — amounting  almost  to  physical  pain — for  that  same  but — 
half-disclosed  glory,  that  same  new  and  very  exquisite  fulness 
of  life,  apprehension  of  which  had  lately  been  vouchsafed  to 
her.  If  she  could  remain  very  still  and  undisturbed,  if  she 
could  empty  her  consciousness  of  all  else,  bend  her  whole  will 
to  an  act  at  once  of  determination  and  of  reception,  perhaps, 
it  would  be  given  her  clearly  to  see  and  understand.  The 
idealist,  the  mystic,  were  very  present  in  Honoria  just  then. 
She  fixed  her  eyes  upon  the  shining  surface  of  the  water.  A 
conviction  grew  upon  her  that,  could  she  maintain  a  certain 
mental  and  emotional  equilibrium,  something  of  permanent 
and  very  vital  importance  must  take  place. 

Suddenly  she  heard  footsteps  upon  the  gravel  of  the  road- 
way. She  started,  turned  deliberately,  holding  in  check  the 
agitation  which  possessed  her,  to  find  herself  confronted  by 
the  tall,  preeminently  modern  and  mundane,  figure  of  Ludovic 
Quayle.  Honoria  gave  herself  a  little  shake  of  uncontrollable 
impatience.  For  less  than  twopence-halfpenny  she  could 
have  given  the  very  gentlemanlike  intruder  a  shake  too  !  He 
let  her  down  with  a  bump,  so  to  speak,  from  regions  myste- 
rious and  supernal,  to  regions  altogether  social  and  of  this 
world  worldly.  And  yet  she  knew  that  such  feelings  were  not 
a  little  hard  and  unjust  as  entertained  towards  poor  Mr. 
Quayle. 

The  young  man,  in  any  case,  was  happily  ignorant  of  hav- 
ing offended.  He  sauntered  out  on  to  the  bridge,  hat  in  hand, 
his  head  a  trifle  on  one  side,  his  long  neck  directed  slightly 
forward,  his  expression  that  of  polite  and  intimate  amusement 
— but  whether  amusement  at  his  own,  or  his  fellow-creatures* 
expense,  it  would  have  been  diflicult  to  declare. 


648  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

"At  last,  T  find  you,  my  dear  Miss  St.  Quentin,"  he  said. 
"  And  I  have  sought  for  you  as  for  lost  treasure.  Forgive  a 
biblical  form  of  address — a  reminiscence  merely  of  my  father's 
morning  ministrations  to  my  unmarried  sisters,  the  footmen, 
and  the  maids.  He  reads  them  the  most  surprising  little  his- 
tories at  times,  w^hich  make  me  positively  blush — but  that's  a 
detail.  To  account  for  my  invasion  of  your  idyllic  solitude — 
I  learned  incidentally  you  proposed  coming  here  from  Ormis- 
ton  this  week.  I  thought  I  would  venture  on  an  early  attempt 
to  find  you.  But  I  drew  the  house  blank,  though  assisted  by 
Winter — the  terrace  also  blank.  Then  from  the  troco-ground 
I  beheld  that  which  looked  promising,  coquetting  with  Dickie's 
yearlings.  So  I  followed  on  to  know — my  father  and  the 
maids  again — followed  on  to — to  my  reward." 

Mr.  Quayle  stood  directly  in  front  of  her.  He  spoke  with 
admirable  urbanity,  yet  with  even  greater  rapidity  than  usual. 
His  beautifully  formed  mouth  pursed  itself  up  between  the 
sentences,  with  that  effect  of  indulgent  superiority  which  was 
at  once  so  attractive  and  so  excessively  provoking.  But,  for 
all  that,  Honoria  perceived  that,  for  once  in  his  life,  the  young 
man  was  distinctly,  not  to  say  acutely,  nervous. 

"The  reward  will  be  limited  I'm  afraid,"  she  replied,  "for 
my  temper  is  unaccountably  out  of  sorts  this  afternoon." 

*'  And,  if  one  may  make  bold  to  inquire,  why  out  of  sorts, 
dear  Miss  St.  Quentin  ?  " 

He  sat  down  on  the  parapet  near  her,  crossed  his  legs,  and 
fell  to  nursing  his  left  knee.  The  woman  of  the  black  bodice 
went  up  across  the  pale  stubble  to  her  companions.  She 
talked  to  them,  nodding  her  head  in  the  direction  of  the  bridge. 

"  I  have  promised  to  do  a  certain  thing,  and  having 
promised,  of  course  I  must  do  it." 

Honoria  looked  away  towards  the  harvesters  up  there  among 
jthe  gold  of  the  corn. 

••"  And  yet,  now  I   have  committed  myself,  thinking  it  over 
"1  find  I  dislike  doing  it  warmly.'* 

"The  statement  of  the  case  is  just   a  trifle  vague,"  Mr. 

-Quayle  remarked.     "  But — if  one  may  brave  a  suggestion — 

supersede  a  first   duty  by  a  second  and,  of  course,  a  greater. 

With  a  little  exercise  of  imagination,  a  little  good-will,  a  little 

.assistance  from  a  true  friend  thrown  in  perhaps,  it  is  generally 

-quite  possible  to  manage  that,  I  think." 


THE  NEW  HEAVEN  AND  NEW  EARTH    649 

**'  And  you  are  prepared  to  play  the  part  of  the  true  friend  ?  " 

"Undoubtedly/' 

"  Then  go  to  Cairo  for  the  winter  with  Evelyn  Tober- 
mory. You  must  take  no  low  gowns — ah  !  poor  little  soul,  it 
is  pathetic,  though — she's  forbidden  to  wear  them.  And — let 
me  stay  here  !  "   Honoria  said. 

Ludovic  gazed  at  his  hands  as  they  clasped  his  knee,  then 
he  looked  sideways  at  his  companion. 

"  Here,  meaning — meaning  Brockhurst,  dear  Miss  St. 
Quentin  ?  "  he  asked  very  sweetly. 

"  Meaning  England,"  she  declared. 

"  England  ? — ah  !  really.  That  pleases  me  better.  Pa- 
triotism is  an  excellent  virtue.  The  remark  is  not  a  wholly 
-original  one,  but  it  comes  in  handy  just  now,  all  the  same." 

The  young  lady's  head  went  up.  Her  face  straightened. 
She  was  displeased.  Turning  sideways,  she  leaned  both 
iiands  on  the  stonework  and  stared  down  into  the  water. 
But  speedily  she  repented. 

"See  how  the  fish  rise,"  she  said.  "It  really  is  a  pity  one 
hasn't  a  fly-rod." 

"  I  was  under  the  impression  you  once  told  me  that  you 
objected  to  taking  life,  except  in  self-defense  or  for  purposes 
of  commissariat.  The  trout  would  almost  certainly  be 
muddy.  And  I  am  quite  unconscious  of  being  exposed  to  any 
danger — at  least  from  the  trout." 

Miss  St.  Quentin  kept  her  eyes  fixed  upon  the  water. 

"  I  told  you  my  temper  was  out  of  sorts,"  she  said. 

"  Is  that  a  warning  ?  "  Ludovic  inquired,  with  the  utmost 
.mildness. 

Honoria  was  busy  feeling  in  her  jacket  pockets.  At  the 
bottom  of  them  a  few  crumbs  remained.  She  emptied  these 
on  to  the  surface  of  the  water,  by  the  simple  expedient  of 
turning  the  pockets  inside  out. 

"  I  know  nothing  about  warnings,"  she  said.  "  I  state  a 
iplain  fact.     You  can  make  of  it  what  you  please." 

The  young  man  rose  leisurely  from  his  place,  sauntered 
across  the  roadway,  and  stood  with  his  back  to  her,  looking 
down  the  valley.  The  harvesters,  their  meal  finished,  moved 
away  towards  the  further  side  of  the  great  corn-field.  The 
women  followed  them  slowly,  gleaning  as  they  went.  It  was 
very  quiet.     And   again  there  came  to  Honoris  that  ache  of 


650  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

longing  for  the  but-half-disclosed  glory  and  fulness  of  life. 
It  was  there,  an  actuality — could  she  but  find  it,  had  she  but 
the  courage  and  the  wit.  Then,  from  the  open  moorland  be- 
yond the  park  palings,  came  the  sound  of  horses  trotting 
sharply.  Ludovic  Quayle  turned  and  recrossed  the  road. 
He  smiled,  but  his  superfine  manner,  his  effect  of  slight  im- 
pertinence were,  for  the  moment,  in  abeyance. 

"  Miss  St.  Quentin,"  he  said,  "  what  is  the  use  of  fencing 
any  longer  ?  I  have  done  that  which  I  engaged  to  do,  namely, 
displayed  the  patience  of  innumerable  asses.  And — if  I  may 
be  pardoned  mentioning  such  a  thing — the  years  pass.  Really 
they  do.  And  I  seem  to  get  no  forwarder !  My  position  be- 
comes slightly  ludicrous." 

"  I  know  it,  I  know  it ! "  Honoria  cried  penitently. 

"  That  I  am  ludicrous  ?  " 

"  No,  no,"  she  protested,  "  that  I  have  been  unreasonable 
and  traded  on  your  forbearance,  that  I  have  done  wrong  in 
allowing  you  to  wait." 

"  That  you  could  not  very  well  help,"  he  said,  "  since  I 
chose  to  wait.  And,  indeed,  I  greatly  preferred  waiting  as 
long  as  there  seemed  to  be  a  hope  there  was  something — any- 
thing, in  short — to  wait  for." 

"  Ah  !  but  that  is  precisely  what  I  have  never  been  sure 
about  myself — whether  there  really  was  anything  to  wait  for 
or  not." 

She  sat  straight  on  the  coping  of  the  parapet  again.  Her 
face  bore  the  most  engaging  expression.  There  was  a  certain 
softness  in  her  aspect  to-day.  She  was  less  of  a  youth,  a 
comrade,  so  It  seemed  to  Mr.  Quayle,  more  distinctly,  more 
consciously  a  woman.  But  now,  to  the  sound  of  trotting 
horse-hoofs  was  added  that  of  wheels.  With  a  clang  the 
park  gates  were  thrown  open. 

"  And  are  you  still  uncertain  ?  In  the  back  of  your  mind 
is  there  still  a  trifle  of  doubt  ? — If  so,  give  me  the  benefit  of 
it,"  the  young  man  pleaded,  half  laughingly,  half  brokenly. 

A  carriage  passed  under  the  gray  archway  of  the  red-brick 
and  freestone  lodges.  Rapidly  it  came  on  down  the  wide, 
smooth,  string-coloured  road — a  space  of  neatly  kept  turf  on 
cither  side — under  the  shade  of  the  heavy-foliaged  elm  trees. 
Mr.  Quayle  glanced  at  it,  and  paused  with  raised  eyebrows. 

"I  call  you  to  witness  that  I  do  not  swear,  dear  Miss  St. 


THE  NEW  HEAVEN  AND  NEW  EARTH  651 

Quentin,  though  men  have  been  known  to  become  blasphe- 
mous on  slighter  provocation  than  this,"  he  said.  "  Hou^- 
evcr,  the  rather  violently-approaching  interruption  u^ill  be  soon 
over,  I  hope  and  believe  ;  since  the  driving  is  that  of  Richard 
Calmady  of  Brockhurst  when  his  temper — like  your  own — 
being  somewhat  out  of  sorts,  he,  as  Jehu  the  son  of  Nimshi 
of  old — my  father's  morning  ministrations  to  the  maids  again 
— driveth  furiously." 

Then,  with  an  air  of  humorous  resignation,  his  mouth 
working  a  little,  his  long  neck  directed  forward  as  in  mildly- 
surprised  inquiry,  he  stood  watching  the  approaching  mail- 
phaeton.  The  wheels  of  it  made  a  hollow  rumbling,  the 
tramp  of  the  horses  was  impetuous,  the  pole-chains  rattled,  as 
it  swung  out  on  to  the  bridge  and  drew  up.  The  grooms 
whipped  down  and  ran  round  to  the  horses'  heads.  And 
these  stood,  a  little  extended,  still  and  rigid  as  of  bronze,  the 
red  of  their  open  nostrils  and  the  silver  mounting  of  their 
harness  very  noticeable.  Lady  Calmady  called  to  Mr.  Quayle. 
The  young  man  passed  round  at  the  back  of  the  carriage,  and, 
standing  on  the  far  side  of  the  roadway,  talked  with  her. 

Honoria  St.  Quentin  remained  sitting  on  the  parapet  of  the 
bridge. 

A  singular  disinclination  to  risk  any  movement  had  come 
upon  her.  Not  the  present  situation  in  relation  to  Ludovic 
Quayle,  but  that  other  situation  of  the  but-half-disclosed  glory, 
the  new  and  exquisite  fulness  of  life  oppressed  her,  penetra- 
ting her  whole  being  to  the  point  of  physical  weakness. 
Questioningly,  yet  with  entire  unself-consciousness,  she 
looked  up  at  Richard  Calmady.  And  he,  from  the  exalted 
height  of  the  driving-seat,  looked  down  at  her.  A  dark, 
cloth  rug  was  wrapped  tight  round  him  from  the  waist  down- 
ward. It  concealed  the  high  driving-iron  against  which  his 
feet  rested.  It  concealed  the  strap  which  steadied  him  in  his 
place.  His  person  appeared  finely  proportioned.  His  head 
and  face  were  surprisingly  handsome  seen  thus  from  below — 
though  it  must  be  conceded  the  expression  of  the  latter  was 
very  far  from  angelic. 

"  You  were  well  advised  to  stay  at  home^  Honoria,"  he 
said.     There  was  a  grating  tone  in  his  voice. 

"  The  function  was  even  more  distinguished  for  dulness 
than  you  expected  ?  " 


652  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

"On  the  contrary,  it  was  not  in  the  least  dull.  It  was 
actively  objectionable,  ingeniously  unpleasant.  Whereas 
this " 

His  face  softened  a  little.  He  glanced  at  the  golden  v/ater 
and  cornland,  the  lush  green  of  the  paddock,  the  rich,  massive 
colouring  of  woodland  and  sky.  Honoria  glanced  at  it  like- 
wise, and,  so  doing,  rose  to  her  feet.  That  nostalgia  of 
things  new  and  glorious  ached  in  her.  Yet  the  pain  of  it  had 
a  strange  and  intimate  charm,  making  it  unlike  any  pain  she 
had  ever  yet  felt.  It  hurt  her  very  really,  it  made  her  weak^ 
yet  she  would  not  have  had  it  cease. 

"Yes,  it  is  all  very  lovely,  isn't  it  ? "  she  said. 

She  laid  her  hand  on  the  folded  leather  of  the  carriage  hood. 
Again  she  looked  up, 

"  It  is  a  good  deal  to  have  this — always — your  own,  to 
come  back  to,  Richard." 

She  spoke  sadly,  almost  unwillingly.  Dickie  did  not  an- 
swer, but  he  looked  down,  a  certain  violence  and  energy  very 
evident  in  him,  his  blue  eyes  hard,  and,  in  the  depth  of  them^ 
desolate  as  the  sky  of  a  winter  night.  Calmly,  yet  in  a  way 
desperately,  as  those  who  dare  inquiry  beyond  the  range  of 
permitted  human  speech,  the  young  man  and  woman  looked 
at  one  another.  Lady  Calmady's  sweet  voice,  meanwhile, 
went  on  in  kindly  question.  Ludovic  Quayle's  in  well- 
placed,  slightly  elaborate  answer.  The  near  horse  threw  back 
its  head  and  the  pole-chains  rattled  smartly. — Honoria's  lips 
parted,  but  the  words,  if  words  indeed  there  were,  died  in  her 
throat.  She  raised  her  hands,  as  though  putting  a  tangible 
and  actual  presence  away  from  her.  She  did  not  change 
colour,  but  for  the  moment  her  delicate  features  appeared 
thickened,  as  by  a  rush  of  blood.  She  was  almost  plain^ 
Yet  the  effect  was  inexpressibly  touching.  It  was  as  though 
she  had  received  some  mysterious  injury  which  she  was  dumb^ 
incapable  to  express.  She  let  her  hands  drop  at  her  sides^ 
turned  away  and  walked  to  the  far  end  of  the  bridge. 

Suddenly  Richard's  voice  came  to  her,  aggressive,  curt. 

"  Look  out,  Ludovic — stand  clear  of  the  wheel." 

The  horses  sprang  forward,  the  grooms  scrambled  up  at  the 
back,  and  the  carriage  swung  away  from  the  brightness  of  the 
open  to  the  gloom  of  the  avenue  and  up  the  long  hill  to  the 
house. 


THE  NEW  HEAVEN  AND  NEW  EARTH    653 

Mr.  Quayle  contemplated  it  for  a  minute  or  so  and  then, 
with  an  air  of  amused  toleration,  he  followed  Miss  St. 
Quentin  across  the  bridge. 

"  Poor,  dear  Dickie  Calmady,  poor,  dear  Dickie  !  "  he  said. 
*'  He  attempts  the  impossible.  P'ails  to  attain  it — as  a  matter  of 
course,  and,  meanwhile,  misses  the  possible — equally  as  a  matter 
of  course.  It  is  all  very  magnificent,  no  doubt,  but  it  is  also 
not  a  little  uncomfortable,  at  times,  for  other  people. — How- 
ever that  trifle  of  criticism  is,  after  all,  beside  the  mark.  Now 
that  the  whirlwind  has  ceased.  Miss  St.  Quentin,  may  the  still, 
small  voice  of  my  own  aflfairs  presume  to  make  itself " 

But  there  he  stopped  abruptly. 

"  My  dear  friend,"  he  asked  in  quick  anxiety,  "  what  is  the 
matter  ?     Pardon  me,  but  what  on  earth  has  happened  to  you  ?  " 

For  Honoria  leaned  both  elbows  on  the  low,  carved  pillar 
terminating  the  masonry  of  the  parapet.  She  covered  her 
face  with  her  hands.  And,  incontestably,  she  shuddered 
queerly  from  head  to  foot. 

"  Wait  half  a  second,"  she  said.  In  a  stifled  voice.  "  It's 
nothing — Vm  all  right." 

Slowly  she  raised  herself,  and  took  a  long  breath.  Then 
she  turned  to  her  faithful  lover,  showing  him  a  brave,  if  some- 
what drawn  and  tired  countenance. 

"  Ludovic,"  she  said  gently,  "  don't,  don't  please  let  us  talk 
any  more  about  all  that.  And  don't,  I  entreat  you,  wait  any 
longer.  If  there  was  any  uncertainty,  if  there  was  a  doubt  in 
the  back  of  my  mind,  it's  gone.  Forgive  me — this  must 
sound  brutal — but  there  is  no  more  doubt.  I  can't  marry  you. 
1  am  sorry,  horribly  sorry — for  you  have  been  as  charming  to 
mc  as  a  man  could  be — but  I  shall  never  be  able  to  marry 
you." 

Mr.  Quayle's  expression  retained  its  sweetness,  even  its 
effect  of  amusement,  though  his  lips  quivered,  and  his  eyelids 
were  a  little  red. 

"I  do  not  come  up  to  the  requirements  of  the  grand  pas- 
sion ?  "  he  said.     "  Alas  !  poor  me " 

"No,  no,  it  isn't  that,"  Honoria  protested. 

"  Ah,  then," — he  paused,  with  an  air  of  extraordinary  intelli- 
gence— "  Perhaps  some  one  else  does  ?  " 

"Yes,"  she  said  simply,  "  I  don't  like  it,  but  it's  there,  and 
so  I've  got  to  go  through  with  it — some  one  else  does." 


6s4  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

"  In  that  case  it  is  indeed  hopeless  !  I  give  it  up,"  he 
cried. 

He  moved  aside  and  stood  gazing  at  the  rising  trout  in  the 
golden-brown  water.  Then  he  raised  his  head  sharply,  as  in 
obedience  to  a  thought  suddenly  occurring  to  him,  and  gazed 
at  Brockhurst  House.  The  brightness  of  the  western  sky 
found  reflection  in  its  many  windows.  A  noble  cheerfulness 
seemed  to  pervade  it,  as  it  crowned  the  hillside,  amid  its 
gardens  and  far-ranging  woods. 

"  By  all  that's  " — Mr.  Quayle  began.  But  he  repressed 
the  exclamation,  and  his  expression  was  wholly  friendly  as  he 
returned  to  Miss  St.  Quentin. 

"  Good-bye,"  he  said. — "  I  am  glad,  honestly  glad,  you 
have  found  the  grand  passion,  though  the  object  of  it  can't,  in 
the  first  blush  of  the  affair  be  altogether  persona  grata  to  my- 
self. But,  to  show  that  really  I  have  a  little  root  of  magna- 
nimity in  me,  I  am  quite  prepared  to  undertake  a  winter  at 
Cairo,  plus  Evelyn  Tobemory  and  minus  low  dresses,  if  that 
will  enable  you  to  stay  on  here — I  mean  in  England, — of 
course." 

He  pursed  up  his  beautiful  mouth,  he  carried  his  head  on 
one  side  with  the  liveliest  effect  of  provocation,  as  he  held  the 
young  lady's  hand  while  bidding  her  farewell. 

"  Out  of  my  heart  I  hope  you  will  be  very  happy,"  he 
said. 

"  I  shall  never  be  anything  but  Honoria  St.  Quentin,"  she 
answered  rather  hastily.  Then  she  softened,  forgiving  him. — 
"  Oh  !  why,"  she  said,  "  why  will  you  make  me  quarrel  with 
you  just  now,  just  at  the  last  ?  " 

"Because — because — "  Mr.  Quayle's  voice  broke,  though 
his  superior  smile  remained  to  him. — "  I  think  I  will  not  pro- 
long the  interview,"  he  said.  "To  be  frank  with  you,  dear 
Miss  St.  Quentin,  I  am  about  as  miserable  as  is  consonant 
with  complete  sanity  and  excellent  health.  I  do  not  propose 
to  blow  my  brains  out,  but  I  think — yes,  thanks — you  appre- 
ciate the  desirability  of  that  course  of  action  too  ? — I  think  it 
is  about  time  I  went," 


THE  NEW  HEAVEN  AND  NEW  EARTH  655 


CHAPTER  X 

CONCERNING    A     DAY     OF     HONEST     WARFARE     AND    A    SUNSET 
HARBINGER    NOT    OF    THE    NIGHT    BUT    OF    THE    DAWN 

I  ^HAT  episode,  upon  the  bridge  spanning  the  Long  Water, 
brought  Richard  would-be  saint,  Richard  pilgrim  along 
the  great  white  road  which  leads  onward  to  Perfection,  into 
lively  collision  with  Richard  the  natural  man,  not  to  mention 
Richard  the  "wild  bull  in  a  net."  These  opposing  forces 
engaged  battle,  with  the  consequence  that  the  carriage  horses 
took  the  hill  at  a  rather  breakneck  pace.  Not  that  Dickie 
touched  them,  but  that,  he  being  vibrant,  they  felt  his  mood 
<iown  the  length  of  the  reins  and  responded  to  it. 

"  Ludovic  need  hardly  have  been  in  such  a  prodigious 
hurry,"  he  broke  out.  "  He  might  have  allowed  one  a  few 
days'  grace.  It  was  a  defect  of  taste  to  come  over  immedi- 
ately— but  then  all  that  family's  taste  is  liable  to  lapses." 

Promptly  he  repented,  ashamed  both  of  his  anger  and  such 
self-revealing  expression  of  it. 

"I  dare  say  it's  all  for  the  best  though.  Better  a  thing 
should  be  nipped  in  the  bud  than  in  the  blossom.  And  this 
puts  it  all  on  a  right  footing.  One  might  easily  drift  into 
depending  too  much  upon  Honoria.  I  own  I  was  dangerously 
near  doing  that  this  spring.  I  don't  mind  telling  you  so 
now,  mother,  because  this,  you  see,  disposes  finally  of  the 
matter." 

His  voice  contended  oddly  with  the  noise  of  the  wheels, 
rattle  of  the  pole-chains,  pounding  of  the  hoofs  of  the  pulling 
horses.  The  sentences  came  to  Lady  Calmady's  ears  dis- 
jointed, difficult  to  follow  and  interpret.  Therefore  she 
answered  slightly  at  random. 

"  My  dearest,  I  could  have  kept  her  longer  in  the  spring  if 
I  had  only  known,"  she  said,  a  disquieting  suspicion  of  lost 
opportunity  assailing  her.  "  But,  from  certain  things  which 
you  said,  I  thought  you  preferred  our  being  alone." 

"  So  I  did.  I  wanted  her  to  go  because  I  wanted  her  to 
stay.     Do  you  see  ?  " 


656  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

••^  Ah,  yes  !  I  see,"  Katherine  replied.  And  at  that  moment^ 
it  must  be  conceded,  her  sentiments  were  not  conspicuously 
pacific  towards  her  faithful  adherent,  Mr.  Quayle. 

"We've  a  good  many  interests  in  common,''  Dickie  went 
on,  "  and  there  seemed  a  chance  of  one's  settling  down  into 
a  rather  charming  friendship  with  her.  It  was  a  beguiling 
prospect.  And  for  that  very  reason,  it  was  best  she  should 
depart.  The  prospect,  in  all  its  beguilingness,  renewed  itself 
to-day  after  luncheon." — He  paused,  handling  the  plunging 
horses. — "  And  so  after  all  Ludovic  shall  be  reckoned  wel- 
come. For,  as  I  say,  I  might  have  come  to  depend  on  her- 
And  one's  a  fool — I  ought  to  have  learnt  that  salutary  lesson 
by  this  time — a  rank  fool,  to  depend  on  anybody,  or  anything, 
save  oneself,  simply  and  solely  oneself" — his  tone  softened — 
"  and  upon  you,  most  dear  and  long-sufFering  mother. — There- 
fore the  dream  of  friendship  goes  overboard  after  all,  along 
with  the  rest  of  one's  little  illusions.  And  every  illusion 
one  rids  oneself  of  is  so  much  to  the  good.  It  lightens  the 
ship.  It  lessens  the  chances  of  sinking.  Clearly  it  is  so 
much  pure  gain." 

That  evening,  pleading — unexampled  occurrence  in  her 
case — a  headache  as  excuse.  Miss  St.  Quentin  did  not  put  in 
an  appearance  at  dinner.  Nor  did  Richard  put  in  an  appear- 
ance at  breakfast  next  morning.  At  an  early  hour  he  had  re- 
ceived a  communication  earnestly  requesting  his  presence  at 
the  Westchurch  Infirmary.  His  mission  promised  to  be  a 
melancholy  one,  yet  he  was  not  sorry  for  the  demand  made  by 
it  upon  his  time  and  thought.  For,  notwithstanding  the  phil- 
osophic tone  he  had  adopted  with  Lady  Calmady  in  speaking 
of  that  friendship  which,  if  not  nipped  in  the  bud,  might 
have  reached  perils  of  too  luxuriant  blossoming,  the  would-be 
saint  and  the  natural  man,  the  pilgrim  on  the  highroad  to 
Perfection  and  that  very  inconvenient  animal  "the  wild  bull 
in  a  net,"  kept  up  warfare  within  Richard  Calmady.  They 
were  hard  at  it  even  yet,  when,  in  the  fair  freshness  of  the 
September  morning — the  grasses  and  hedge-fruit,  the  wild 
flowers,  and  the  low-growing,  tangled  coppices  by  the  road- 
side, still  heavy  with  dew — he  drove  over  to  Westchurch. 
The  day  was  bright,  with  flying  cloud  and  a  westerly  breeze. 
The  dust  was  laid,  and  the  atmosphere,  cleared  by  the  storm 
of  the  preceding  afternoon,  had  a  smack  of  autumn  in  it.     It 


THE  NEW  HEAVEN  AND  NEW  EARTH    657 

was  one  of  those  delicious,  yet  distracting,  days  when  the  sea 
calls,  and  when  whosoever  loves  seafaring  grows  restless, 
must  seek  movement,  seek  the  open,  strain  his  eyes  towards 
the  margin  of  the  land — be  the  coast-line  never  so  far  distant 
— tormented  by  desire  for  sight  of  the  blue  water,  and  the 
strong  and  naked  joys  of  the  mighty  ridge  and  furrow  where 
go  the  gallant  ships. 

With  the  upspringing  of  the  wind  at  dawn,  that  calling  of 
the  sea  had  made  itself  heard  to  Richard.  At  first  it  suggested 
only  the  practical  temptation  of  putting  the  Reprieve  into 
commission,  and  engaging  Lady  Calmady  to  go  forth  with  him 
on  a  three  or  four  months'  cruise.  But  that,  as  he  speedily 
convinced  himself,  was  but  a  pitifully  cheap  expedient,  a  shirk- 
ing of  voluntarily  assumed  responsibility,  a  childish  cheating 
of  discontent,  rather  than  an  honestly  attempted  cure  of  it. 
If  cure  was  to  be  achieved,  the  canker  must  be  excised,  boldly 
cut  out,  not  overlaid  merely  by  some  trifle  of  partially  con- 
cealing plaster.  For  he  knew  well  enough — as  all  sea-lovers 
know — and,  as  he  drove  through  the  dappled  sunlight  and 
shadow,  frankly  admitted — that  though  the  sea  itself  very 
actually  and  really  called,  yet  its  calling  was  the  voice  and 
symbol  of  much  over  and  above  itself.  For  in  it  speaks  the 
eternal  necessity  of  going  forward,  that  hunger  and  thirst  for 
the  absolute  and  ultimate  which  drives  every  human  creature 
whose  heart  and  soul  and  intellect  are  truly  animate.  And  to 
him,  just  now,  it  spoke  more  particularly  of  the  natural  in- 
stincts of  his  manhood — of  ambition,  of  passion,  of  headlong 
desire  of  sensation,  excitement,  adventure,  of  just  all  that,  in 
fact,  which  he  had  forsworn,  had  agreed  with  himself  to  cast 
aside  and  forget.  And,  thinking  of  this,  suspicion  assailed  him 
that  forswearing  had  been  slightly  insincere  and  perfunctory. 
He  accused  himself  of  nourishing  the  belief  that  giving,  he 
would  also  receive, — and  that  in  kind, — while  that  any  sacri- 
fice which  he  offered  would  be  returned  to  him  doubled  in 
value.  Casting  his  bread  upon  the  waters,  he  accused  himself 
of  having  expected  to  find  it,  not  "  after  many  days,"  but  im- 
mediately— a  full  baker's  dozen  ready  to  hand  in  his  pocket. 
His  motives  had  not  been  wholly  pure.  Actually,  though  not 
at  the  time  consciously,  he  had  assayed  to  strike  a  bargain  with 
the  Almighty. 

Just  as  he  reached  the  top  pf  th^  long,  straight  hill  leading 


658  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

down  into  Westchurch,  Richard  arrived  at  these  unflattering 
conclusions.  On  either  side  the  road,  upon  the  yellow  surface 
of  which  the  sunlight  played  through  the  tossing  leaves  of  the 
plane  trees,  were  villas  of  very  varied  and  hybrid  styles  of 
architecture.  They  were,  for  the  most  part,  smothered  in 
creepers,  and  set  in  gardens  gay  with  blossom.  Below  lay  the 
sprawling,  red-brick  town  blotted  with  purple  shadow.  A 
black  canal  meandered  through  the  heart  of  it,  crossed  by 
mean,  humpbacked  bridges.  The  huge,  amorphous  buildings 
of  its  railway  station — engine  sheds,  goods  warehouses,  trailing 
of  swiftly  dispersed  white  smoke — the  grime  and  clamour  of 
all  that,  its  factory  buildings  and  tall  chimneys,  were  very 
evident,  as  were  the  pale  towers  of  its  churches.  And  beyond 
the  ugly,  pushing,  industrial  commonplace  of  it,  striking  a 
very  different  note,  the  blue  ribbon  of  the  still  youthful 
Thames,  backed  by  high-lying  chalk-lands  fringed  with  hang- 
ing woods,  traversed  a  stretch  of  flat,  green  meadows.  Rich- 
ard's eyes  rested  upon  the  scene  absently,  since  thought  just 
now  had  more  empire  over  him  than  any  outward  seeing. 
For  he  perceived  that  he  must  cleanse  himself  yet  further  of 
self-seeking.  Those  words,  "  if  thou  wilt  be  perfect  sell  that 
thou  hast  and  give  to  the  poor,  and  follow  thou  Me,"  have 
not  a  material  and  objective  significance  merely.  They  deal 
with  each  personal  desire,  even  the  apparently  most  legitimate 
— with  each  indulgence  of  personal  feeling,  even  the 
apparently  most  innocent — with  the  inward  attitude  and  the 
atmosphere  of  the  mind  even  more  closely  than  with  outward 
action  and  conduct.  And  so  Richard  reached  the  conclusion 
that  he  must  strip  himself  yet  nearer  to  the  bone.  He  musr 
digest  the  harsh  truth  that  virtue  is  its  own  reward  in  tl^ 
sense  that  it  is  its  only  reward,  and  must  look  for  nothing  be- 
yond that.  He  had  grown  slack  of  late,  seduced  by  visions 
of  pleasant  things  permitted  most  men  but  to  him  forbidden, 
and  wearied,  too,  by  the  length  of  the  way  and  inevitable 
monotony  of  it  now  first  heat  of  enthusiasm  had  evaporated. 
Well — it  was  all  very  simple.  He  must  just  re-dedicate  him- 
self. And  in  this  stern  and  chastened  frame  of  mind  he  drove 
through  the  bustle  of  the  country  town — Saturday,  market 
day,  its  streets  unusually  alive — nodding  to  an  acquaintance 
here  and  there  in  passing,  two  or  three  of  his  tenant  farmers, 
Mr.  Cathcart  of  Newlands  in  on  county  business,  Goodall 


THE  NEW  HEAVEN  AND  NEW  EARTH    659 

the  octogenarian  miller  from  Parson's  Holt,  and  Lemuel 
Image,  the  brewer,  bursting  out  of  an  obviously  new  suit  of 
very  showy  tweeds.  Then,  at  the  main  door  of  the  Infirmary, 
helped  by  the  stalwart,  hospital  porter,  he  got  down  from  the 
dog-cart,  and  subsequently — raked  by  curious  eyes,  saluted  by 
hardly  repressed  tittering  from  the  out-patients  waiting  en  queue 
for  admission  to  the  dispensary — he  made  his  slow  way  along 
the  bare,  vault-like,  stone  passage  to  the  accident  ward,  in  the 
far  corner  of  which  a  bed  was  shut  off  from  the  rest  by  an 
arrangement  of  screens  and  of  curtains. 

And  it  was  in  the  same  chastened  frame  of  mind  that,  some 
four  or  five  hours  later,  Dickie  entered  the  dining-room  at 
Brockhurst.  The  two  ladies  had  nearly  finished  luncheon  and 
were  about  to  rise  from  the  table.  Lady  Calmady  greeted  him 
very  gladly,  but  abstained  from  inquiry  as  to  his  doings  or 
from  comment  on  the  lateness  of  the  hour,  since  experience 
had  long  ago  taught  her  that  of  all  known  animals  man  is  the 
one  of  whom  it  is  least  profitable  for  woman  to  ask  questions. 
He  was  here  at  home,  alive,  intact,  her  eyes  were  rejoiced  by 
the  sight  of  him,  that  was  sufficient.  If  he  had  anything  to 
tell  her,  no  doubt  he  would  tell  it  later.  For  the  rest,  she 
had  something  to  tell  him,  but  that  too  must  wait  till  time  and 
circumstance  were  propitious,  since  the  conveying  of  it  in- 
volved delicate  diplomacies.  It  must  be  handled  lightly.  For 
the  life  of  her  she  must  avoid  all  appearance  of  eagerness,  all 
appearance  of  attaching  serious  importance  to  the  communica- 
tion. Lady  Calmady  had  learned,  this  morning,  that  Honoria 
St.  Quentin  did  not  propose  to  marry  Ludovic  Quayle.  The 
young  lady,  whose  charming  nonchalance  was  curiously  in 
eclipse  to-day,  had  given  her  to  understand  so  much,  but  very 
briefly,  the  subject  evidently  being  rather  painful  to  her.  She 
was  silent  and  a  little  distrait ;  but  she  was  also  very  gentle, 
displaying  a  disposition  to  follow  Katherine  about  wherever 
she  went,  and  a  pretty  zeal  in  doing  small,  odd  jobs  for  her. 
Katherine  was  touched  and  tenderly  amused  by  her  manner, 
which  was  as  that  of  a  charming  child  coveting  assurance  that 
it  need  not  be  ashamed  of  itself,  and  that  it  has  not  really  done 
anything  naughty  !  But  Katherine  sighed  too,  watching  this 
strong,  graceful,  capable  creature ;  for,  if  things  had  been 
otherwise  with  Dickie,  how  thankfully  she  would  have  given 
the  keeping  of  his  future  into  this  woman's  hands  !     She  had 


66o  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

ceased  to  be  jealous  even  of  her  son's  love.  Gladly,  grate- 
fully, would  she  have  shared  that  love,  accepting  the  second 
place,  if  only  — but  all  that  was  beyond  possibility  of  hope. 
Still  the  friendship  of  which  he  had  spoken  somewhat  bitterly 
yesterday — poor  darling — remained.  Ludovic  Quayle's  pre- 
tensions— she  felt  very  pitifully  towards  that  accomplished 
gentleman,  all  his  good  qualities  had  started  into  high  relief! 
— but,  his  pretensions  no  longer  barring  the  way  to  that  friend- 
ship, she  pledged  herself  to  work  for  the  promotion  of  it. 
Dickie  was  too  severe  in  self-repression,  was  over-strained  in 
stoicism ;  and,  ignoring  the  fact  that  in  his  fixity  of  purpose, 
his  exaggerations  of  self-abnegation,  he  proved  himself  very 
much  her  own  son,  she  determined  secretly,  cautiously,  lov- 
ingly, to  combat  all  that. 

It  was,  therefore,  with  warm  satisfaction  that,  as  Honoria 
was  about  to  rise  from  the  table,  she  observed  Richard  emerge, 
in  a  degree,  from  his  abstraction,  and  heard  him  say  : — 

"You  told  me  youM  like  to  ride  over  to  Farley  this  after- 
noon and  see  the  home  for  my  crippled  people.  Are  you  too 
tired  after  your  headache,  or  do  you  still  care  to  go  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  I'm  not  tired,  thanks,"  Honoria  answered.  Then 
she  hesitated,  and  Richard,  looking  at  her,  was  aware,  as  on 
the  bridge  yesterday,  of  a  sudden  and  singular  thickening  of 
her  features,  which,  while  marring  her  beauty,  rendered  her 
aspect  strangely  pathetic,  as  of  one  who  sustains  some  mys- 
terious hurt.  And  to  him  it  seemed,  for  the  moment,  as 
though  both  that  hurt  and  the  infliction  of  it  bore  subtle  rela- 
tion to  himself.  Common  sense  discredited  the  notion  as 
unpermissibly  fantastic,  still  it  influenced  and  softened  his 
manner. 

"  But  you  know  you  are  looking  frightfully  done  up  your- 
self, Richard,"  she  went  on,  with  a  charming  air  of  half-reluc- 
tant protest.  "  Isn't  he.  Cousin  Katherine  ?  Are  you  sure 
you  want  to  ride  this  afternoon  ?  Please  don't  go  out  just  on 
my  account." 

"  Oh  !  I'm  right  enough,"  he  answered.  "  I'd  infinitely 
rather  go  out." 

He  pushed  back  his  chair  and  reached  down  for  his 
crutches.  Still  the  fantastic  notion  that,  all  unwittingly,  he 
had  been  guilty  of  doing  Honoria  some  strange  injury,  clung 
to  him.     He  was  sensible  of  the  desire  to  offer  reparatign. 


THE  NEW  HEAVEN  AND  NEW  EARTH   661 

This  made  him  more  communicative  than  he  would  otherwise 
have  been. 

"  I  saw  a  man  die  this  morning — that's  all,"  he  said.  "I 
know  it's  stupid,  but  one  can't  help  it — it  knocks  one  about 
a  bit.  You  see  he  didn't  want  to  die,  poor  fellow,  though, 
God  knows,  he'd  little  enough  to  live  for — or  to  live  with,  for 
that  matter." 

"Your  factory  hand  ?  "  Honoria  asked. 

Richard  slipped  out  of  his  chair,  and  stood  upright. 

*^Yes,  my  factory  hand,"  he  answered.  "  Dear,  old  Knott 
was  fearfully  savage  about  it.  He  was  so  tremendously  keen 
on  the  case,  and  made  sure  of  pulling  him  through.  But  the 
poor  boy  had  been  sliced  up  a  little  too  thoroughly." — Richard 
paused,  smiling  at  Honoria.  "  So  all  one  could  do  was  to  go 
with  him  just  as  far  as  is  permitted  out  into  the  great  silence,  ^ 
and  then — then  come  home  to  luncheon.  The  home  at  Far- 
ley loses  its  point,  rather,  now  he  is  dead.  Still  there  are 
others,  plenty  of  others,  enough  to  satisfy  even  Knott's  greed 
of  riveting  broken  human  crockery. — Oh  yes  !  I  shall  enjoy 
riding  over,  if  you  are  still  good  to  come.  Four  o'clock — 
that'll  suit  you  ?     I'll  order  the  horses." 

And  so,  in  due  time,  the  two  rode  forth  together  into  the 
brightness  of  the  September  afternoon.  The  sea  still  called, 
but  Dickie's  ears  were  deaf  to  all  dangerous  allurements  and 
excitations  resident  in  that  calling.  It  had  to  him,  just  now, 
only  the  pensive  charm  of  a  far-away  melody,  which,  though 
no  doubt  of  great  and  immediate  import  to  others,  had  ceased 
to  be  any  concern  of  his.  Beside  the  death-bed  in  the  hospital- 
ward  he  had  renewed  his  vows,  and  the  efficacy  of  that  re- 
newal was  very  present  with  him.  It  made  for  repose.  It 
laid  the  evil  spirit  of  defiance,  of  self-consciousness,  of  hu- 
miliation, so  often  obtaining  in  his  intercourse  with  women — 
a  spirit  begotten  by  the  perpetual  prick  of  his  deformity,  and 
in  part,  too,  by  his  determined  adoption  of  the  ascetic  attitude 
in  regard  to  the  affections.  He  was  spent  by  the  emotions  of 
the  morning,  but  that  also  made  for  repose.  For  the  time  be- 
ing devils  were  cast  out.  He  was  tranquil,  yet  exalted.  His 
eyes  had  a  smile  in  them,  as  though  they  looked  beyond  the 
limit  of  things  transitory  and  material  into  the  regions  of  the 
Pure  Idea,  where  the  eternal  values  are  disclosed  and  Peace 
has  her  dwelling.     And,  precisely  because  of  all  this,  he  could 


662  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

take  Honoria's  presence  lightly,  be  chivalrously  solicitous  of 
her  entertainment  and  well-being,  and  talk  to  her  with  greater 
freedom  than  ever  heretofore.  He  ceased  to  be  on  his  guard 
with  her  because,  in  good  truth,  it  seemed  to  him  there  ceased 
to  be  anything  to  guard  against.  For  the  time  being,  at  all 
events,  he  had  got  to  the  other  side  of  all  that,  and  so  she  and 
his  relation  to  her,  had  become  part  of  that  charming  but  far- 
away melody  which  was  no  concern  of  his — though  mighty 
great  and  altogether  worthy  concern  of  others,  of  Ludovic 
Quayle,  for  example. — And  in  his  present  tranquil  humour  he 
could  listen  to  the  sweetness  of  that  melody  ungrudgingly.  It 
was  pleasant.  He  could  enjoy  it  without  envy — though  it 
was  none  of  his. 

But  to  Honoria's  seeing,  it  must  be  owned,  matters  shaped 
themselves  very  differently.  For  the  usually  unperturbed,  the 
chaste  and  gallant  soul  of  her  endured  violent  assaults,  violent 
commotions,  the  origin  of  which  she  but  partially  under- 
stood.  And  these  Richard's  frankness,  his  courteous,  in  some 
sort  brotherly,  good-fellowship,  served  to  intensify  rather  than 
allay.  The  feeling  of  the  noble  horse  under  her,  the  cool,, 
westerly  wind  in  her  face,  went  to  steady  her  nerves,  and 
restore  the  self-possession,  courage  of  judgment,  and  clearness 
of  thought,  which  had  been  lacking  to  her  during  the  past 
twenty-four  hours.  Nevertheless  she  rode  as  through  a  but- 
newly-discovered  country,  familiar  objects  displaying  alien 
aspects,  familiar  phrases  assuming  unlooked-for  significance,  a 
something  challenging  and  fateful  meeting  her  everywhere. 
The  whole  future  seemed  to  hang  in  the  balance,  and  she 
waited,  dreading  yet  longing,  to  see  the  scale  turn. 

This  afternoon  the  harvesters  were  carrying  the  corn.  Red- 
painted  waggons,  drawn  by  sleek,  heavy-made  cart-horses, 
crawled  slowly  across  the  blond  stubble.  It  was  pretty  to  see 
the  rusty-gold  sheaves  tossed  up  from  the  shining  prongs  of 
the  pitchforks  on  to  the  mountainous  load.  Honoria  and  Rich- 
ard watched  this,  a  little  minute,  from  the  grass-ride  bordering 
the  roadway  beneath  the  elms.  Next  came  the  high-lying 
moorland,  beyond  the  lodges.  The  fine-leaved  heath  was 
thick  with  red-purple  blossom.  Patches  of  dusky  heather 
were  frosted  with  dainty  pink.  Spikes  of  genista  and  beds  of 
needle-furze  showed  sharply  yellow,  vividly  green,  and  a 
fringe  of  blue  campanula,  with  frail,  quivering  bells,  outlined 


THE  NEW  HEAVEN  AND  NEW  EARTH  663 

all  open  spaces.  The  face  of  the  land  had  been  washed  by 
the  rain.  It  shone  with  an  inimitable  cleanliness,  as  though 
consciously  happy  in  relief  from  all  soil  of  dust.  And  it  was 
here,  the  open  country  stretching  afar  on  all  sides,  that  Dickie 
began  talking,  not,  as  at  first,  in  desultory  fashion,  but  of  mat- 
ters nearly  pertaining  and  closely  interesting  to  himself. 

"  You  know,"  he  said,  as  they  walked  the  horses  quietly, 
neck  to  neck,  along  the  moorland  road,  "  I  don't  go  in  for 
system-making  or  for  reforms  on  any  big  scale.  That  doesn't 
come  within  my  province.  I  must  leave  that  to  politicians 
and  to  men  who  are  in  the  push  of  the  world.  I  admire  it. 
I  rejoice  in  the  hot-headed,  narrow-brained,  whole-hearted  ag- 
itator, who  believes  that  his  system  adopted,  his  reform  carried 
through,  the  whole  show  will  instantly  be  put  straight.  Such 
faith  is  very  touching." 

"  And  the  reformer  has  sometimes  done  some  little  good 
after  all,"  Honoria  commented. 

"  Of  course  he  has  !  "  Dickie  agreed.  "  Only,  as  a  rule, 
poor  dear,  he  can't  be  contented  but  that  his  special  reform 
should  be  the  final  one,  that  his  system  should  be  the  universal 
panacea.  And  in  point  of  fact  no  reform  is  final  this  side  of 
death,  and  no  panacea  is  universal,  save  that  which  the  Maker 
of  the  Universe  chooses  to  work  out — is  working  out  now, 
if  we  could  any  way  grasp  it — through  the  slow  course  of  un- 
numbered ages.  Let  the  reformer  do  all  he  can,  but  don't  let 
him  turn  sour  because  his  pet  reform,  his  pet  system,  sinks 
away  and  is  swallowed  up  in  the  great  sea  of  things — sea  of 
human  progress,  if  you  like.  Every  system  is  bound  to  prove 
too  small,  every  reform  ludicrously  inadequate- -be  it  never  so 
radical — because  material  conditions  are  perpetually  changing, 
while  man  in  his  mental,  emotional  and  physical  aspects  re- 
mains always  precisely  the  same." 

They  passed  from  the  breezy  upland  into  the  high-banked 
lane  which,  leading  downwards,  joins  the  great  London  and 
Portsmouth  Road  just  beyond  Farley  Row. 

*' And — and  that  is  where  I  come  in  !  "  Richard  said,  turn- 
ing a  little  in  the  saddle  and  smiling  sweet-temperedly,  yet 
with  a  suggestion  of  self-mockery,  upon  his  companion. 
"Just  because,  in  essential  respects,  mankind  remains — not- 
withstanding modifications  of  his  environment — substantially 
the  same,  from  the  era  of  the   Pentateuch  to  the  era  of  the 


664  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

Rougon-Macquarts,  there  must  always  be  a  lot  of  wreckage^ 
of  waste,  and  refuse  humanity.  The  inauguration  of  each 
new  system,  each  new  reform — religious,  political,  educational^ 
economic — practically  they're  all  in  the  same  boat — let  alone 
the  inevitable  breakdown  or  petering  out  of  each,  necessarily 
produces  a  fresh  crop  of  such  waste  and  refuse  material.  And 
in  that  a  man  like  myself,  who  does  not  aspire  to  cure  or  to 
construct,  but  merely  to  alleviate  and  to  pick  up  the  pieces, 
finds  his  chance." 

And  Honoria  listened  musing — approved,  enthusiasm  gain- 
ing her  ;  yet  protested — since,  even  while  she  admired,  she  re- 
belled a  little  on  his  account,  and  for  his  sake. 

"  But  it  is  rather  a  hard  life,  surely  Richard,"  she  said, 
"  which  you  propose  to  yourself  ?  Always  the  pieces,  the 
thing  broken  and  spoiled,  never  the  thing  in  its  beauty,  full  of 
promise,  and  whole  !  " 

"  It  is  less  hard  for  me  than  for  most,"  he  answered,  "  or 
should  be  so.  After  all,  I  am  to  the  manner  born — a  bit  oi 
human  wreckage  myself,  with  which,  but  for  the  accident  of 
wealth,  things  would  have  gone  pretty  badly.  I  used  to  be 
horribly  scared  sometimes,  as  a  small  boy,  thinking  to  what 
uses  I  might  be  put  if  the  kindly,  golden  rampart  ever  gave." 

He  became  silent.  As  for  Honoria,  she  had  neither  courage 
to  look  at,  nor  answer,  him  just  then. 

"  And  you  see,  I'm  absolutely  free,"  he  added  presently. — 
"  I  am  alone,  always  shall  be  so.  If  the  life  is  hard,  I  ask  no 
one  to  share  it,  so  I  may  make  it  what  I  like." 

"  Oh  !  no,  no — you  misunderstand,  Richard  !  I  didn't  mean 
that,"  Honoria  cried  quickly,  half  under  her  breath. 

Again  he  looked  at  her,  smiling. 

"  Didn't  you  ?     All  the  kinder  of  you,"  he  said. 

Thereupon  regret,  almost  intolerable  in  its  poignancy,  in- 
vaded Miss  St.  Quentin  that  she  would  have  to  go  away,  to  go 
back  to  the  world  and  all  the  foolish  obtaining  fashions  of  it ; 
that  she  would  have  to  take  that  preeminently  well-cushioned 
and  luxurious  winter's  journey  to  Cairo.  She  longed  inex- 
pressibly to  remain   here,  to  assist  in  these  experiments  made 

in  the  name  of  Holy  Charity.     She  longed  inexpressibly  to 

And  there  Honoria  paused,  even  in  thought.  Yet  she  glanced 
at  the  young  man  riding  beside  her — at  the  handsome  profile, 
still  and  set  in  outline,  the  suggestion — it  was  no  more — of  a 


THE  NEW  HEAVEN  AND  NEW  EARTH  665 

scar  running  downward  across  the  left  cheek,  at  the  well-made, 
upright,  broad-shouldered  figure,  and  then  at  the  saddle, 
peaked,  back  and  front,  with  oddly-shaped  appendages  to  it 
resembling  old-fashioned  holsters. — And,  as  yesterday  upon 
the  bridge,  the  ache  of  a  pain  at  once  sweet  and  terrible  laid 
hold  of  her,  making  her  queerly  faint.  The  single  street, 
sun-covered,  sleepy,  empty  save  for  a  brewer's  dray  and  tax- 
cart  or  two  standing  before  the  solid  Georgian  portals  of  the 
White  Lion  Inn,  for  a  straggling  tail  of  children  bearing  home 
small  shoppings  and  jugs  of  supper  beer,  for  a  flock  of  gray 
geese  proceeding  with  suggestively  self-righteous  demeanour 
along  the  very  middle  of  the  roadway  and  lowering  long  necks 
to  hiss  defiance  at  the  passer-by,  and  for  an  old  black  retriever 
dozing  peacefully  beneath  one  of  the  rustling  sycamores  in 
front  of  Josiah  Appleyard,  the  saddler's  shop — all  these,  as  she 
looked  at  them,  became  uncertain  in  outline,  reeled  before 
Honoria's  eyes.  For  the  moment  she  experienced  a  difficulty 
in  keeping  steady  in  the  saddle.  But  the  horses  still  walked 
quietly,  neck  to  neck,  their  shadows,  and  those  of  their  riders 
growing  longer,  narrower,  outstretched  before  them  as  the  sun 
declined  in  the  west.  All  the  future  hung  in  the  balance,  but 
the  scale  had  not  turned  as  yet. 

Then  Richard's  voice  took  up  its  parable  again, 

"  Perhaps  it's  a  rather  fraudulently  comfortable  doctrine,  yet 
it  does  strike  one  that  the  justification  of  disaster,  in  all  its 
many  forms,  is  the  opportunity  it  affords  the  individualist.  He 
may  use  it  for  self-aggrandisement,  or  for  self-devotion — 
though  I  rather  shy  at  so  showy  a  word  as  that  last.  How- 
ever, the  use  he  makes  of  it  isn't  the  point.  What  is  the 
point,  to  my  mind  at  least,  is  this — though  it  doesn't  sound 
magnificent,  it  hardly  indeed  sounds  cleanly — that  whatever 
trade  fails,  whatever  profession,  thanks  to  the  advance  of  civ- 
ilisation, becomes  obsolete,  that  of  the  man  with  the  dust-cart, 
of  the  scavenger,  of  the  sweeper,  won't." 

Once  more  Richard  smiled  upon  his  companion  charmingly, 
yet  with  something  of  self-mockery. 

"  And  so,  you  see,  having  knocked  about  enough  to  grow 
careless  of  niceties  of  prejudice,  and  to  acquire  immense 
admiration  for  any  vocation  which  promises  permanence,  I 
join  hands  with  the  dustman.  In  the  light  of  science,  and  in 
that  of  religion   alike,  nothing  really  is  common  or  unclean. 


666  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

And  then — then,  if  you  are  outcasted  In  any  case  as  some  of 
us  are,  it's  a  little  too  transparently  cheap  to  be  afraid  of  soil- 
ing   '*     He  broke  off. — "  Away  there  to  the  left,  Honoria," 

he  said.  "  You  see  the  house  ?  The  yellow-washed  one,  with 
the  gables  and  tiled  roofs — there,  back  on  the  slope. — Bagshaw, 
the  Bond  Street  poulterer,  had  it  for  years.  His  lease  ran  out 
in  the  spring,  and  happily  he  didn't  care  to  renew.  Had 
bought  himself  an  up-to-date,  villa  residence  somewhere  in  the 
suburbs— Chistlehurst,  I  believe.  So  I  took  the  place  over. 
It  will  do  for  a  beginning — the  small  end  of  the  wedge  of  my 
scavenger's  business.  There  are  over  five  acres  of  garden  and 
orchard,  and  plenty  of  rooms  on  each  floor,  which  gives  good 
range  for  the  disabled  to  move  about  in — and  the  stairs,  only 
one  flight,  are  easy.  One  has  to  think  of  these  details.  And 
— well,  the  house  commands  a  magnificent  view  of  Gierke's 
Green,  and  the  geese  on  it,  than  which  nothing  clearly  can  be 
more  exciting  !  " 

The  groom  rode  forward  and  opened  the  gate.  Before  the 
square,  outstanding  porch  Richard  drew  up. 

"  I  should  like  to  come  in  with  you,"  he  said.  ^'  But  you 
see  it's  rather  a  business  getting  ofF  one's  horse,  and  I  can't 
very  well  manage  the  stairs.  So  I'll  wait  about  till  you  are 
ready.  Don't  hurry.  I  want  you  to  see  all  the  arrangements, 
if  it  doesn't  bore  you,  and  make  suggestions.  The  carpenters 
are  there,  doing  overtime.  They'll  let  you  through  if  the 
caretaker's  out." 

Thus  admonished,  Miss  St.  Quentin  dismounted  and  made 
her  way  into  the  house.  A  broad  passage  led  straight  through 
it.  The  open  door  at  the  farther  end  disclosed  a  vista  of  box- 
edged  path-  and  flower-borders  where,  in  gay  ranks,  stood  tall 
sunflowers,  hollyhocks,  Michaelmas-daisies,  and  such  like. 
Beyond  was  orchard,  the  round-headed  apple-trees,  bright  with 
polished  fruit,  rising  from  a  carpet  of  grass.  The  rooms,  to 
left  and  right  of  the  passage,  were  pleasantly  sun-warmed  and 
mellow  of  aspect,  the  ceilings  of  them  crossed  by  massive 
beams.  Honoria  visited  them,  dutifully  observant.  She  en- 
countered the  head  carpenter,  an  acquaintance  and  ally  during 
those  four  years  so  great  part  of  which  she  had  spent  at  Brock- 
hurst.  She  talked  with  him,  making  inquiries  concerning 
wife,  children  and  trade,  incident  to  such  a  meeting,  her  face 
very  serious  all  the  while,  the  skirt  of  her  habit  gathered  up  in 


THE  NEW  HEAVEN  AND  NEW  EARTH  667 

one  hand,  her  gait  a  trifle  stiff  and  measured  owing  to  her 
high  riding-boots.  But,  though  she  acquitted  herself  in  all 
kindliness  of  conversation,  though  she  conscientiously  in- 
spected each  separate  apartment,  and  noted  the  cheerful  comeli- 
ness of  orchard  and  garden,  it  must  be  owned  all  these  re- 
mained singularly  distant  from  her  actual  emotion  and  thought. 
She  was  glad  to  be  alone.  She  was  glad  to  be  away  from 
Richard  Calmady,  though  zealously  obedient  to  his  wishes  in 
respect  of  this  inspection.  For  his  presence  became  increas- 
ingly oppressive  from  the  intensity  of  feeling  it  produced  in  her, 
and  which  she  was,  at  present,  powerless  to  direct  towards  any 
reasonable  and  definite  end.  This  rendered  her  tonp;ue-tied- 
and,  as  she  fancied,  stupid.  Her  unreadiness  mortified  her. 
She,  usually  indifferent  enough  to  the  impression  she  produced 
on  others,  was  sensible  of  a  keen  desire  to  appear  at  her  best. 
She  did  in  fact,  so  she  believed,  appear  at  her  worst,  slow  of 
understanding  and  of  sympathy. — But  then  all  the  future  hung 
in  the  balance.  The  scale  delayed  to  turn.  And  the  strain 
of  waiting  became  agitating  to  the  point  of  distress. 

At  last  the  course  of  her  so-dutiful  survey  brought  her  to  a 
quaint,  little  chamber,  situated  immediately  over  the  square^ 
outstanding  porch.  It  was  lighted  by  a  single,  hooded  window 
placed  in  the  centre  of  the  front  wall.  It  was  evidently  de- 
signed for  a  linen  room,  and  was  in  process  of  being  fitted 
with  shelves  and  cupboards  of  white  pine.  The  floor  was  deep- 
in  shavings,  long,  curly,  wafer-coloured,  semi-transparent. 
They  rustled  like  fallen  leaves  when  Honoria  stepped  among 
them.  The  air  was  filled  with  the  odour  of  them,  dry  and 
resinous  as  that  of  the  fir  forest.  Ever  after  that  odour  affected 
Honoria  with  a  sense  of  half-fearful  joy  and  of  impending  fate. 
She  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  quaint,  little  chamber.  The 
ceiling  was  low.  She  had  to  bend  her  head  to  avoid  violent 
contact  between  the  central  beam  of  it  and  the  crown  of  her 
felt  hat.  But  circumscribed  though  the  space,  and  uncomfort- 
able though  her  posture,  she  had  an  absurd  longing  to  lock 
the  door  of  the  little  room,  never  to  come  out,  to  stay  here  for- 
ever !  Here  she  was  safe.  But  outside,  on  the  threshold^ 
stood  something  she  dared  not  name.  It  drew  her  with  a  pain 
at  once  terrible  and  lovely.  She  dreaded  it.  Yet  once  close 
to  it,  once  face  to  face  with  it,  she  knew  it  would  have  her — 
that  it  would  not  take  no  for  an  answer.     Her  pride,  her 


668  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

chastity,  were  in  arms.  Was  this,  she  wondered,  what  men 
and  women  speak  of  so  lightly,  laugh  and  joke  about  ?  Was 
this  love  ? — To  her  it  seemed  wholly  awe-inspiring.  And  sc 
she  clung  strangely  to  the  shelter  of  the  quaint,  little  room 
with  its  sea  of  rustling,  resinous  shavings.  On  the  other  side 
the  door  of  it  waited  that  momentous  decision  which  would 
cause  the  scale  to  turn.  Yet  the  minutes  passed.  To  pro- 
long her  absence  became  impossible. 

Just  then  there  was  a  movement  below,  a  crunching  of  the 
gravel,  as  though  of  a  horse  growing  restless,  impatient  of 
standing.  Honoria  moved  forward,  opened  the  window, 
pushing  back  the  casement  against  a  cluster  of  late-blossom- 
ing, red  roses,  the  petals  of  which  floated  slowly  downward 
describing  fluttering  circles.  Richard  Calmady  was  just  below. 
Honoria  called  to  him. 

"  I  am  coming,  Richard,  I  am  coming  !  "  she  said. 

He  turned  in  the  saddle  and  looked  up  at  her  smiling — a 
smile  at  once  courageous  and  resigned.  Yet,  notwithstanding 
that  smile,  Honoria  once  again  discovered  in  his  eyes  the  chill 
desolation  and  homelessness  of  the  sky  of  the  winter  night. 
Then  the  scale  turned,  turned  at  last— for  that  same  lovely  pain 
grew  lovelier,  more  desirable  than  any  possibility  of  ease, 
until  such  time  as  that  desolation  should  pass,  that  homeless- 
riess  be  cradled  to  content  in  some  sure  harbourage. — Here 
was  the  thing  given  her  to  do,  and  she  must  do  it !  She  would 
risk  all  to  win  all.  And,  with  that  decision,  all  her  serenity 
and  freedom  of  soul  returned^  The  white  light  of  a  noble 
self-devotion,  reckless  of  self-spending,  reckless  of  conse- 
quence, the  joy  of  a  great  giving,  illuminated  her  face. 

As  to  Richard,  he,  looking  up  at  her,  though  ignorant  of 
her  purpose,  misreading  the  cause  of  that  inspired  aspect,  still 
thought  he  had  never  witnessed  so  graciously  gallant  a  sight. 
The  nymph  whom  he  had  first  known,  who  had  baffled  and 
crossed  him,  was  here  still,  strong,  untamed,  elusive,  remote. 
But  a  woman  was  here  too,  of  finest  fibre,  faithful  and  loyal, 
capable  of  undying  tenderness,  of  an  all-encircling  and  heroic 
love.  Then  the  desires  of  the  natural  man  stirred  somewhat 
in  Richard,  just  because — paradox  though  it  undoubtedly  was 
— she  provoked  less  the  carnal,  perishing  passion  of  the  flesh, 
than  the  pure  and  imperishable  passion  of  the  spirit.  Irre- 
jiressible  envy  of  Ludovic  Quayle,  her  lover,  seized  him,  irrc- 


THE  NEW  HEAVEN  AND  NEW  EARTH    669 

pressible  demand  for  just  all  those  things  which  that  other 
Richard,  the  would-be  saint,  had  so  sternly  condemned  him- 
self to  repudiate,  to  cast  aside  and  forget.  And  the  would-be 
saint  triumphed — beating  down  thought  of  all  that,  trampling 
it  under  foot — so  that  after  briefest  interval  he  called  up  to  her 
cheerily  enough. 

"  Well,  what  do  you  make  of  the  dust-cart  ?  Rather  fas- 
cinating, isn't  it  ?  Notwithstanding  its  uncleanly  name,  it's 
really  rather  sweet." 

To  which  she  answered,  speaking  from  out  the  wide  back- 
ground of  her  own  emotion  and  purpose  : — 

"  Yes,  yes — it's  sad  in  a  way,  Richard,  penetratingly,  splen- 
didly sad.  But  one  wouldn't  h?ve  it  otherwise  ;  for  it  is 
splendid,  and  it  is  sweet,  abundantly  sweet."-— Then  her  tone 
changed. — "I  won't  keep  you  waiting  any  longer,  I'm  com- 
ing," she  said. 

Honoria  looked  round  the  quaint,  little  room,  with  its  half- 
adjusted  shelves  and  cupboards,  the  floor  of  it  deep  in  resinous, 
semi-transparent,  wafer-coloured  shavings,  bidding  it  adieu. 
For  good  or  evil,  happiness  or  sorrow,  she  was  sensible  it  told 
for  much  in  her  life's  history.  Then,  something  delicately^ 
militant  in  her  carriage,  she  swung  away  down-stairs  and  out 
of  the  house.  She  was  going  forth  to  war  indeed,  to  a  war 
which  in  no  shape  or  form  had  she  ever  waged  as  yet.  Many 
men  had  wooed  her,  and  their  wooing  had  left  her  cold.  She 
had  never  wooed  any  man.  Why  should  she  ?  To  her  na 
man  had  ever  mattered  one  little  bit. 

So  she  mounted,  and  they  rode  away. — A  spin  across  the 
level  turf  to  hearten  her  up,  satisfy  the  fulness  of  sensation 
which  held  her,  and  shake  her  nerves  into  place.  It  was  ex- 
hilarating. She  grew  keen  and  tense,  her  whole  economy  be- 
coming reliable  and  well-knit  by  the  strong  exercise  and  sense 
of  the  superbly  healthy  and  unperplexed  vitality  of  the  horse 
under  her.  Honoria  could  have  fought  with  dragons  just  then, 
had  such  been  there  to  fight  with  !  But,  in  point  of  fact, 
nothing  more  agressively  dangerous  presented  itself  for  en- 
counter than  the  shallow  ford  which  divides  the  parish  of 
Farley  from  that  of  Sandyfield  and  the  tithing  of  Brockhurst. 
Snorting  a  little,  the  horses  splashed  through  the  clear,  brown 
water  and  entered  upon  the  rough,  rutted  road,  grass  grown 
in  places,  which,  ending  beneath  a  broken  avenue  of  ancient,. 


670  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

stag-headed  oaks,  leads  to  the  entrance  of  the  Brockhurst 
woods.  These,  crowned  by  the  dark,  ragged  line  of  the  fir 
forest,  rose  in  a  soft,  dense  mass  against  the  western  sky,  in 
which  showed  promise  of  a  fair  pageant  of  sunset.  A  covey 
of  partridges  ran  up  the  sandy  ruts  before  the  horses,  and, 
rising  at  last  with  a  long-drawn  whir  of  wings,  skimmed  the 
top  of  the  crumbling  bank  and  dropped  in  the  stubble-field  on 
che  right.  A  pause,  while  the  keeper's  wife  ran  out  to  open 
the  white  gate, — the  dogs  meanwhile,  from  their  wooden 
kennels  under  the  Spanish  chestnuts  upon  the  hillock  behind 
the  lodge,  pulling  at  their  chains  and  keeping  up  a  vociferous 
chorus.  Thus  heralded,  the  riders  passed  into  the  mysteri- 
ously whispering  quiet  of  the  great  woods. 

The  heavy,  summer  foliage  remained  as  yet  untouched  by 
the  hectic  of  autumn.  Diversity  was  observable  in  form 
rather  than  in  tint,  and  from  this  resulted  a  remarkable  effect 
of  unity,  a  singleness  of  intention,  and  of  far-reaching  se- 
crecy. The  multitudinous  leaves  and  the  all-pervading  green 
gloom  of  them  around,  above,  seemed  to  engulf  horses  and 
riders.  It  was  as  though  they  rode  across  the  floor  of  ocean, 
the  green  tides  sweeping  overhead.  Yet  the  trees  of  the 
wood  asserted  their  intelligent  presence  now  and  again.  Au- 
dibly they  talked  together,  bent  themselves  a  little  to  listen 
and  to  look,  as  though  curious  of  the  aspect  and  purposes  of 
these  wandering  mortals.  And  all  this,  the  unity  and  secrecy 
of  the  place,  affected  both  Richard  and  Honoria  strangely, 
circling  them  about  with  something  of  earth-magic,  removing 
them  far  from  ordinary  conditions  of  social  intercourse,  and 
thus  rendering  it  possible,  inevitable  even,  that  they  should 
think  such  thoughts  and  say  such  words  as  part  company  with 
subterfuge  and  concealment,  go  naked,  and  speak  uttermost 
truth.  For,  with  only  the  trees  of  the  wood  to  listen,  with 
that  sibilant  whisper  of  the  green  tide  overhead,  with  strong 
emotion  compelling  them — in  the  one  case  towards  death  of 
self,  in  the  other  towards  giving  of  self — in  the  one  towards 
austere  passivity,  in  the  other  towards  activity  taxing  all  capi- 
tal of  pride,  of  delicacy,  and  of  tact — developments  became 
imminent,  and  those  of  the  most  vital  sort. 

The  conversation  had  been  broken,  desultory ;  but  now,  by 
tacit  consent,  the  pace  became  quiet  again,  the  horses  were 
permitted  to  walk.     To  have  gone  other  than  softly  through 


THE  NEW  HEAVEN  AND  NEW  EARTH    671 

the  living  heart  of  the  greenwood  must  have  savoured  of  des- 
ecration. Yet  Richard  was  not  insensible  to  a  certain  danger. 
He  tried,  rousing  himself  to  conversation,  to  rouse  himself  also- 
to  the  practical  and  commonplace. 

"  I  am  glad  you  liked  my  house,"  he  said.  "  But  I  hear 
the  aristocracy  of  the  Row  laments.  It  shies  at  the  idea  of 
being  invaded  by  more  or  less  frightful  creatures.  But  I  re- 
main deaf.  I  really  can't  bother  about  that.  It  is  so  im- 
measurably more  unpleasant  to  be  frightful  than  to  see  that 
which  is  so,  that  I'm  afraid  my  sympathies  remain  rather  pig- 
headedly  one-sided.  I  propose  to  educate  the  Row  in  the 
grace  of  pity.     It  may  lay  up  merit  by  due  exercise  of  that." 

Richard  took  off  his  hat  and  rode  bareheaded,  looking 
away  into  the  delicious,  green  gloom.  Here,  where  the  wood 
was  thickest,  oak  and  beech  shutting  out  the  sky,  clasping 
hands  overhead,  the  ground  beneath  them  deep  in  moss  and 
fern,  that  gloom  was  precisely  like  the  colour  of  Honoria's> 
eyes.  He  wished  it  wasn't  so.  He  tried  to  forget  it.  But 
the  resemblance  haunted  him.  Look  where  he  might,  still  he 
seemed  to  look  into  those  singular  and  charming  eyes.  He 
talked  on  determinedly,  putting  a  force  upon  himself — too 
often  saying  that  which,  no  sooner  was  it  out  of  his  mouth, 
than,  he  wished  unsaid. 

"  I  don't  want  to  be  too  hard  on  the  Row,  though.  It  has 
a  right,  after  all,  to  its  little  prejudices.  Only  you  see  for 
those  who,  poor  souls,  are  different  to  other  people  it  becomes 
of  such  supreme  importance  to  keep  in  touch  with  the  average. 
I  have  found  that  out  in  practice.  And  so  I  refuse  to  shut  my 
waste  humanity  away.  They  must  neither  hide  themselves 
nor  be  hidden,  be  spared  seeing  how  much  other  people  enjoy 
from  which  they  are  debarred,  or  grow  over-conscious  of  their 
own  ungainliness.  That  is  why  I've  planted  them  and  their 
gardens,  and  their  pigs  and  their  poultry — we'll  have  a  lot  of 
live  stock,  a  second  generation,  even  of  chickens,  offers  re- 
markable consolations  !— on  the  highroad,  at  the  entrance  of 
the  little  town,  where,  on  a  small  scale  at  all  events,  they'll 
see  the  world  that's  straight-backed  and  has  its  proper  comple- 
ment of  limbs  and  senses,  go  by.  Envy,  hatred,  and  malice, 
and  the  seven  devils  of  morbidity  are  forever  lying  in  wait  for 
them — well — for  us — for  me  and  chose  like  me,  I  mean.  In 
proportion   as   one's    brought    up    tenderly — as    I    was — one 


672  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

doesn't  realise  the  deprivation  and  disgust  of  one's  condition 
at  the  start.  But  once  realised,  one's  inclination  is  to  kill. 
At  least  a  man's  is.  A  woman  may  accept  it  more  quietly,  I 
suppose." 

"  Richard,"  Honoria  said  slowly,  "are  you  sure  you  don't 
greatly  exaggerate  all — all  that  ?  " 

He  shook  his  head. 

"  Thirty  years'  experience — no,  I  don't  exaggerate  !  Each 
time  one  makes  a  fresh  acquaintance,  each  time  a  pretty 
woman  is  just  that  bit  kinder  to  one  than  she  would  dare  be  to 
any  man  who  was  not  out  of  it,  each  time  people  are  mani- 
festly interested — politely,  of  course — and  form  a  circle,  make 
room  for  one  as  they  did  at  that  particularly  disagreeable 
Grimshott  garden  party  yesterday,  each  time — I  don't  want  to 
drivel,  but  so  it  is — one  sees  a  pair  of  lovers — oh  !  well,  it's 
not  easy  to  retain  one's  philosophy,  not  to  obey  the  primitive 
instincts  of  any  animal  when  it's  ill-used  and  hurt,  and  to  re- 
venge oneself — to  want  to  kill^  in  short." 

"  You — you  don't  hate  women,  then  ?  "  Honoria  said,  still 
slowly. 

Richard  stared  at  her  for  a  moment. 

"  Hate  them  ?  "  he  said,     "I  only  wish  to  goodness  I  did." 

"  But  in  that  case,"  she  began  bravely,  "  why " 

"  This  is  why,"  he  broke  in. — "  You  may  remember  my 
engagement  to  Lady  Constance  Quayle,  and  the  part  you, 
very  properly,  took  in  the  canceling  of  it  ?  You  know  better 
than  I  do — though  my  imagination  is  pretty  fertile  in  dealing 
with  the  situation — what  instincts  and  feelings  prompted  you 
to  take  that  part." 

The  young  lady  turned  to  him,  her  arms  outstretched,  not- 
withstanding bridle-reins  and  whip,  her  face,  and  those  strange 
eyes  which  seemed  so  integral  a  part  of  the  fair  green-wood, 
full  of  sorrowful  entreaty  and  distress. 

"  Richard,  Richard,"  she  cried,  "  will  you  never  forgive  me 
that  ?  She  didn't  love  you.  It  was  horrible,  yet  in  doing  that 
which  I  did,  I  believed— I  believe  so  still — I  did  what  was 
right  by  you  both." 

"  Undoubtedly  you  did  right — and  that  justifies  my  conten- 
tion. In  doing  that  which  you  did  you  gave  voice  to  the 
opinion  of  all  wholesome-minded  people.  That's  exactly 
where   it  is.     You  felt  the  whole  business  to  be  outrageous. 


THE  NEW  HEAVEN  AND  NEW  EARTH    675 

So  it  was.  I  heartily  agree.'* — He  paused,  and  the  trees 
talked  softly  together,  bending  down  a  little  to  listen  and  to 
look. — "As  you  say,  she  wasn't  in  love.  Poor  child,  how 
could  she  be  ?  No  woman  ever  will  be — at  least  not  in  love 
of  the  nobler  sort — of  the  sort  which,  if  one  cannot  have  it, 
one  had  a  vast  deal  better  have  no  love  at  all." 

''  But  I  am  not  so  sure  of  that,"  Honoria  said  stoutly. 
"  You  rush  to  conclusions.  Isn't  it  rather  a  reflection  on  all 
the  rest  of  us  to  take  little  Lady  Constance  as  the  measure  of 
the  insight  and  sensibility  of  the  whole  sex  ?  And  then  she 
had  already  lost  all  her  innocent,  little  heart  to  Captain 
Decies.     Indeed  you're  not  fair  to  us. — Wait " 

"  Like  Ludovic  Quayle  ?  " 

Miss  St.  Quentin  straightened  herself  in  the  saddle. 

"  Oh  !  dear  no,  not  the  least  like  Ludovic  Quayle  !  "  she 
said. 

Which  enigmatic  reply  produced  silence  for  a  while  on 
Dickie's  part.  For  there  were  various  ways  in  which  it  might 
be  interpreted,  some  flattering,  some  eminently  unflattering,  to 
himself.  And  from  every  point  of  view  it  was  wisest  to  ac- 
cept that  last  form  of  interpretation.  The  whole  conversa- 
tion had  been  perilous  in  character.  It  had  been  too  intimate,, 
had  touched  him  too  nearly,  taking  place  here  in  the  clear 
glooms  of  the  green-wood  moreover  which  bore  such  haunt- 
ing kinship  to  those  singularly  sincere,  and  yet  mysterious,, 
eyes.  It  is  dangerous  to  ride  across  the  floor  of  ocean  with 
the  whispering  tide  sweeping  overhead,  and  in  such  gallant 
company,  besides,  that  to  ride  thus  forever  could  hardly  come 
amiss  ! — Richard,  in  his  turn,  straightened  himself  up  in  the 
saddle,  opened  his  chest,  taking  a  long  breath,  carried  his  head 
high,  said  a  stern  "get  thee  behind  me,  Satan,"  to  encroach- 
ing sentiment  and  emotion,  and  to  those  fair  visions  which  his 
companion's  presence  and  her  somewhat  daring  talk  had  con- 
jured up.  He  defied  the  earth-magic,  defied  those  sylvan  deities 
who  as  he  divined,  sought  to  enthral  him.  For  the  moment 
he  confounded  Honoria's  influence  with  theirs.  It  was  some- 
thing of  a  battle,  and  not  the  first  one  he  had  fought  to-day» 
For  the  great,  white  road  which  leads  onward  to  Perfection 
looked  dusty  and  arid  enough — no  reposeful  shadow,  no  mys- 
tery, no  beguiling  green  glooms  over  it !  Stark,  straight, 
hard,    it    stretched    on   endlessly,  as  it   seemed,   ahead.     To 


674  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

travel  it  was  slow  and  tedious  work,  in  any  case ;  and  to  travel 
it  on  crutches ! — But  it  was  worse  than  useless  to  play  with 
such  thoughts  as  these.  He  would  put  a  stop  to  this  disin- 
tegrating talic.  He  turned  to  Honoria  and  spoke  lightly,  with 
a  return  of  self-mockery. 

"  Oh  !  your  first  instinct  was  the  true  one,  depend  upon 
it,"  he  said.  "Though  I  don't  deny  it  contributed,  indirectly, 
to  giving  me  a  pretty  rough  time." 

"  Oh  !  dear  me  !  "  Honoria  cried,  almost  piteously.  Then 
she  added  : — "  But  I  don't  see,  why  was  that?  " 

"  Because,  I  suppose,  I  had  a  sort  of  unwilling  belief  in 
you,"  he  said,  smiling. — Oh !  this  accursed  conversation, 
why  would  it  insistently  drift  back  into  intimacy  thus ! 

"Have  I  justified  that  belief?"  she  asked,  with  a  certain 
pride  yet  a  certain  eagerness. 

"  More  than  justified  it,"  Dickie  answered.  "  My  mother, 
who  has  a  touchstone  for  all  that  is  of  high  worth,  knew  you 
from  the  first.  Like  the  devils,  I — I  believed  and  trembled — 
at  least  that  is  how  I  see  it  all  now.  So  your  action  came  as 
a  rather  searching  revelation  and  condemnation.  When  I 
perceived  all  that  it  involved — oh,  well  !  first  I  went  to  the 
dogs,  and  then " 

The  horses  walked  side  by  side.  Honoria  stretched  out  her 
hand  impulsively,  laid  it  on  his  arm. 

"  Richard,  Richard,  for  pity's  sake  don't !  You  hurt  me 
too  much.  It's  terrible  to  have  been  the  cause  of  such  suf- 
fering." 

"  You  weren't  the  cause,"  he  said.  "  Lies  were  the  cause, 
behind  which,  like  a  fool,  I'd  tried  to  shelter  myself.  You've 
been  right,  Honoria,  from  first  to  last.  What  does  it  matter 
after  all  ? — Don't  take  it  to  heart.  For  it's  over  now — all 
over,  thank  God,  and  I  have  got  back  into  normal  relations 
with  things  and  with  people." — He  looked  at  her  very  charm- 
ingly, and  spoke  with  a  fine  courtesy  of  tone. — "  One  way 
and  another  you  have  taught  me  a  lot,  and  I  am  grateful. 
And,  in  the  future,  though  the  conditions  will  be  altered,  I 
hope  you'll  come  back  here  often,  Honoria,  and  just  see  for 
yourself  that  my  mother  is  content ;  and  give  my  schemes  and 
fads  a  kindly  look  in  at  the  same  time.  And  perhaps  give  me 
a  trifle  of  sound  advice.  I  shall  need  it  safe  enough.  You 
sec  what  I   want  to   get  at    is    temperance — temperance  all 


THE  NEW  HEAVEN  AND  NEW  EARTH    675 

round,  towards  everything    and    everybody — not  fanaticism^ 
which,  in  some  respects,  is  a  much  easier  attitute  of  mind." 

Richard  looked  up  into  the  whispering,  green  tide  over- 
head. 

"Yes,  one  must  deny  oneself  the  luxury  of  fanaticism,  if 
possible,"  he  said,  "  deny  oneself  the  vanity  of  eccentricity.. 
One  must  take  everything  simply,  just  in  the  day's  work. 
One  must  keep  in  touch.  Keep  in  touch  with  your  world,, 
the  great  world,  the  world  which  cultivates  pleasure  and  inci- 
dentally makes  history,  as  well  as  with  the  world  of  the  dust-^ 
cart — I  know  that  well  enough — if  one's  to  be  quite  sane. 
You  see  loneliness,  a  loneliness  of  which  I  am  thankful  to* 
think  you  can  form  no  conception,  is  the  curse  of  persons  like 
myself.  It  inclines  one  to  hide,  to  sulk,  to  shut  oneself  away 
and  become  misanthropic.  To  hug  one's  misery  becomes 
one's  chiefest  pleasure — to  nurse  one's  grief,  one's  sense  of 
injury.  Oh !  I'm  wary,  very  wary  now,  I  tell  you,"  he 
added,  half  laughing.  "  I  know  all  the  insidious  temptations^ 
the  tricks  and  frauds,  and  pitfalls  of  this  affair.  And  so  I'll 
continue  to  go  to  Grimshott  garden  parties  as  discipline  now 
and  then,  while  I  gather  my  disabled  and  decrepit  family  very 
closely  about  me  and  say  words  of  wisdom  to  it — wisdom  de- 
rived from  a  mature  and  extensive  personal  experience." 

There  was  a  pause  before  Miss  St.  Quentin  spoke.  Then?- 
she  said  slowly. 

"  And  you  refuse  to  let  any  one  help  ?  You,  you  refuse  ta 
let  any  one  share  the  cares  of  that  disabled  family  ?  " 

Again  Dickie  stared  at  her,  arrested  by  her  speech  and 
doubtful  of  the  intention  of  it.  He  could  have  sworn  there 
were  tears  in  her  voice,  that  it  trembled.  But  her  face  was 
averted,  and  he  could  see  no  more  than  the  slightly  angular 
outline  of  her  cheek  and  chin. 

"  Isn't  that  a  rather  superfluous  question  ?  "  he  remarked. 
"  As  you  pointed  out  a  little  while  ago,  mine  is  not  a  super- 
abundantly cheerful  programme.  No  one  would  volunteer 
for  such  service — at  least  no  one  likely  to  be  acceptable  to  my 
mother,  or  indeed  likely  to  satisfy  my  own  requirements.  I 
admit,  I'm  a  little  fastidious,  a  little  critical  and  exacting,  wheiir 
it  comes  to  close  quarters  and — well — permaneat  association^ 
even  yet." 

*  I  am  very  glad  to  hear  that,"  Honoria  said     Her  face  ro- 


676  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

mained  averted,  but  there  was  a  change  in  her  attitude,  a 
decision  in  the  pose  of  her  figure,  suggestive  both  of  challenge 
and  of  triumph. 

Richard  was  nonplussed,  but  his  blood  was  up.  This  con- 
versation had  gone  far  enough — indeed  too  far.  Very  certainly 
he  would  make  an  end  of  it. 

"But  God  forbid,"  he  exclaimed,  "that  I  should  ever  fall 
to  such  a  depth  of  selfishness  as  to  invite  any  person  who 
would  satisfy  my  taste,  my  demands,  to  share  my  life  !  I 
'  mayn't  amount  to  very  much,  but  at  least  I  have  never  used 
I  my  personal  ill  luck  to  trade  on  a  woman's  generosity  and 
pity.  What  I  have  had  from  women,  Pve  paid  for,  in  hard 
cash.  In  that  respect  my  conscience  is  clear.  It  has  been  a 
bargain,  fair  and  square  and  above  board,  and  all  my  debts  are 
•settled  in  full.  You  hardly  think  at  this  time  of  day  I  should 
use  my  proposed  schemes  of  philanthropy  as  a  bait  ?  " 

Richard  sent  his  horse  forward  at  a  sharp  trot. 

"  No,  no,  Honoria,"  he  said,  "  let  it  be  understood  that 
side  of  things  is  over  forever." 

But  here  came  relief  from  the  green  glooms  of  the  green- 
wood and  the  dangerous  magic  of  them.  For  the  riders  had 
reached  the  summit  of  the  hill,  and  entered  upon  the  levels  of 
the  great  table-land  at  the  head  of  which  Brockhurst  House 
stands.  Here  was  the  open,  the  fresh  breeze,  the  long-drawn, 
sighing  song  of  the  fir  forest — a  song  more  austere,  more 
courageous,  more  virile,  than  ever  sung  by  the  trees  of  the  wood 
which  drop  their  leaves  for  fear  of  the  sharp-toothed  winter, 
and  only  put  them  forth  again  beneath  the  kisses  of  soft-lipped 
spring.  Covering  all  the  western  sky  were  lines  of  softly- 
founded,  broken  cloud,  rank  behind  rank,  in  endless  per- 
spective, the  whole  shaped  like  a  mighty  fan.  The  under 
side  of  them  was  flushed  with  living  rose.  The  clear  spaces 
behind  them  paved  with  sapphire  at  the  zenith,  and  palest 
topaz  where  they  skirted  the  far  horizon. 
'->'How  very  beautiful  it  is!"  Honoria  cried,  joyously. 
"•*  Richard  let  us  see  this." 

She  turned  her  horse  at  the  green  ride  which  leads  to  the 
•white  Temple  situate  on  that  outstanding  spur  of  hill.  She 
Tode  on  quickly  till  she  reached  the  platform  of  turf  before  the 
Temple.  Richard  followed  her  with  deliberation.  He  was 
shaken.     His  calm  was  broken  up,  his  whole  being  in  tumult. 


THE  NEW  HEAVEN  AND  NEW  EARTH  677 

Why  had  she  pressed  just  all  those  matters  home  on  hinr 
which  he  had  agreed  with  himself  to  cast  aside  and  forget  ? 
It  was  a  little  cruel,  surely,  that  temptation  should  assail  him 
thus,  and  the  white  road  towards  Perfection  be  made  so  difficult 
to  tread,  just  when  he  had  re-dedicated  himself  and  renewed  his 
vows  ?  He  looked  after  her.  It  was  here  he  had  met  her 
first,  after  the  time  when,  as  a  little  maid,  she  had  proved  too 
swift  of  foot,  leaving  him  so  far  behind  that  it  sorely  hurt  his 
baby  dignity  and  caused  him  to  see  her  depart  without  regret. 
She  was  still  swift  of  foot.  She  left  him  behind  now.  For 
the  moment  he  was  ready  to  swear  that,  not  only  without  re- 
gret, but  with  actual  thankfulness  he  could  again  witness  her  de- 
parture.— Yes,  he  wanted  her  to  go,  because  he  so  desperately 
wanted  her  to  stay — that  was  the  truth.  For  not  only  Dickie 
the  natural  man,  but  Dickie  "  the  wild  bull  in  a  net,"  had  a 
word  to  say  just  then. — God  in  heaven,  what  hard  work  it  is 
to  be  good  ! 

Miss  St.  Quentin  kicked  her  left  foot  out  of  the  stirrup^ 
threw  her  right  leg  over  the  pommel,  turned,  and  slipped 
straight  out  of  the  saddle.  She  stood  there  a  somewhat  se- 
verely tall,  dark  figure,  strong  and  positive  in  efi'ect,  against 
the  immense  and  reposeful  landscape — far-ranging,  purple 
distance,  golden  harvest-fields,  silver  glint  of  water  in  the  hol- 
lows, all  the  massive  grandeur  of  the  woods,  and  that  superb 
pageant  of  sunset  sky. 

The  groom  rode  forward,  took  her  horse,  led  it  away  to  the 
far  side  of  the  grass  platform  behind  the  Temple.  Those 
ranks  of  rosy  cloud  in  infinite  perspective,  with  spaces  of 
clearest  topaz  and  sapphire  light  between,  converged  to  the 
glowing  glory  of  the  sun,  the  rim  of  which  now  touched  the 
margin  of  the  world.  They  were  as  ranks  of  worshippers,  of 
blessed  souls  redeemed  and  sainted,  united  by  a  common  act 
of  adoration,  every  form  clothed  by  reflection  of  His  glory, 
every  heart,  every  thought  centred  upon  God. — Richard 
looked  at  all  that,  but  it  failed  to  speak  to  him.  Then  he  saw 
Honoria  resolutely  turn  her  back  upon  the  glory.  She  came 
directly  towards  him.  Her  face  was  very  thin,  her  manner 
very  calm.  She  laid  her  left  hand  on  the  peak  of  his  saddle. 
She  looked  him  full  in  the  eyes. 

"  Richard,"  she  said,  "  be  patient  a  minute  and  listen. — It 
comes  to  this,  that  a  woman — your  equal  in  position,  of  your 


678  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

own  age,  and  not  without  money — does  volunteer  to  share 
your  work.  It's  no  forlorn  hope.  She  is  not  disappointed. 
On  the  contrary  she  has,  and  can  have,  pretty  well  all  the 
world's  got  to  give.  Only — perhaps  very  foolishly,  for  she 
doesn't  know  much  about  the  matter,  having  been  rather  cold- 
blooded as  yet — she  has  fallen  in  love." 

There  was  a  silence,  save  that  the  wind  came  out  of  the 
west,  out  of  the  majesty  of  the  sunset,  and  with  it  came  the 
calling  of  the  sea — not  only  of  the  blue  water,  or  of  those 
green  tides  that  sweep  above  wandering  mortals  in  the  magic 
green-wood ;  but  of  the  sea  of  faith,  of  the  sea  of  love — love 
human,  love  divine,  love  universal — which  circles  not  only 
this,  but  all  possible  states  of  being,  all  possible  worlds. 

Presently  Richard  spoke  hoarsely,  under  his  breath. 

*'  With  whom  ?  "  he  said. 

*^  With  you " 

Dickie  went  white  to  the  lips.  He  sat  absolutely  still  for  a 
little  space,  his  hands  resting  on  his  thighs. 

"  Tell  her  to  think,"  he  said,  at  last. — "  She  proposes  to  do 
that  which  the  world  will  condemn,  and  rightly,  from  its  point 
of  view.  It  will  misread  her  motives.  It  won't  spare  disa- 
greeable comment.  Tell  her  to  think. — Tell — tell  her  to 
look. — Cripple,  dwarf,  the  last,  as  he  ought  to  be,  of  an  un- 
lucky race — a  man  who's  carried  up  and  down-stairs  like  an 
infant,  who's  strapped  to  the  saddle,  strapped  to  the  driving 
seat — who  is  cut  off  from  most  forms  of  activity  and  of  sport. 
— A  man  who  will  never  have  any  sort  of  career — who  has 
given  himself,  in  expiation  of  past  sins,  to  the  service  of 
human  beings  a  degree  more  unfortunate  than  himself. — No, 
no,  stop — hear  me  out. — She  must  know  it  all ! — A  man  who 
has  lived  far  from  cleanly,  who  has  evil  memories  and  evil 
knowledge  of  life — no — listen  ! — A  man  whom  you, — yes, 
you  yourself,  Honoria, — have  condemned  bitterly,  from  whom, 
notwithstanding  your  splendid  nerve  and  pluck,  so  repulsive  is 
his  deformity,  you  have  shrunk  a  hundred  times." 

"  She  has  thought  of  all  that,"  Honoria  answered  calmly. 
*'  But  she  has  thought  of  this  too, — that,  going  up  and  down 
the  world  to  find  the  most  excellent  thing  in  it,  she  has  found 
this  thing,  love.  And  so  to  her,  Richard,  your  crippling  has 
come  to  be  dearer  than  any  other  man's  wholeness.  Your 
wrong-doings — may  God  forgive  her — dearer  than  any  other 


THE  NEW  HEAVEN  AND  NEW  EARTH  679 

man's  virtue.  Your  virtues  so  wholly  beautiful  that — 
that " 

The  tears  came  into  her  eyes,  her  lips  quivered,  she  backed 
away  a  little  from  rider  and  horse. 

'^  Richard,"  she  cried  fiercely,  "  if  you  don't  care  for  me^ 
if  you  don't  want  me,  be  honourable,  tell  me  so  straight  out 
and  let  us  have  done  with  it !  I  am  strong  enough,  I  am 
man  enough,  for  that.  For  heaven's  sake  don't  take  me  out 
of  pity.  I  would  never  forgive  you.  There's  a  good  deal 
of  us  both,  one  way  and  another,  and  we  should  give  each 
other  a  hell  of  a  time  if  I  was  in  love  and  you  were  not. 
But " — she  put  her  hand  on  the  peak  of  that  very  ugly  saddle 
again — ^^  but,  if  you  do  care,  here  I  am.  I  have  never  failed 
any  one  yet.  I  will  never  fail  you.  I  am  yours  body  and 
soul.     Marry  me,"  she  said. 


CHAPTER  XI 

IN     WHICH     RICHARD     CALMADY     BIDS     THE     LONG-SUFFERING 

READER    FAREWELL 

npHE  midsummer  dusk  had  fallen,  drawing  its  soft,  dim 
•*'  mantle  over  the  face  of  the  land.  The  white  light 
walked  the  northern  sky  from  west  to  east.  A  nightingale 
sang  in  the  big,  Portugal  laurel  at  the  corner  of  the  troco- 
ground,  and  was  answered  by  another  singer  from  the  coppice, 
across  the  valley,  bordering  the  trout  stream  that  feeds  the 
Long  Water.  A  fox  barked  sharply  out  in  the  Warren. 
Beetles  droned,  flying  conspicuously  upright,  straight  on  end, 
through  the  warm  air.  The  churring  of  the  night-jars,  as 
they  flitted  hither  and  thither  over  the  beds  of  bracken  and 
dog-roses,  like  gigantic  moths,  on  quick,  silent  wings,  formed 
a  continuous  accompaniment,  as  of  a  spinning-wheel,  to  the 
other  sounds.  And  Dick  Ormiston  laughed  consumedly, 
doubling  himself  together  now  and  again  and  holding  his  slim 
sides  in  effort  to  moderate  his  explosive  merriment.  He  was 
in  uproarious  spirits. — Back  from  school  to-day,  and  that  nearly 
a  month  earlier  than  could  by  the  most  favourable  process  of 
calculation  have   been  anticipated,  thanks  to  development  of 


68o  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

measles  on  the  part  of  some  much-to-be-commended  school- 
fellows. How  he  blessed  those  praiseworthy  young  sufferers  ! 
And  how  he  laughed,  watching  the  two  heavy-headed,  lollop- 
ing, half-grown,  bull-dog  puppies  describe  crazy  circles  upon 
the  smooth  turf  in  the  deepening  dusk.  Seen  thus  in  the 
half-light  they  appeared  more  than  ever  gnome-like,  humor- 
ously ugly  and  awkward.  They  trod  on  their  own  ears, 
tumbled  over  one  another,  sprawled  on  the  grass,  panting  and 
grinning,  until  their  ecstatic  owner  incited  them  to  further 
gyrations.  To  Dick  this  was  a  night  of  unbridled  licence. 
Had  he  not  dined  late  ?  Had  he  not  leave  to  sit  up  till  half- 
past  ten  o'clock  ?  Was  he  not  going  out,  bright  and  early,  to- 
morrow morning  to  see  the  horses  galloped  ?  Could  life  hold 
greater  complement  of  good  for  a  brave,  little,  ten-year-old 
soul,  and  slender,  serviceable,  little,  ten-year-old  body  emulous 
of  all  manly  virtues  and  manly  pastimes  ? 

So  the  boy  laughed ;  and  the  sound  of  his  laughter  reached 
the  ears  both  of  the  elder  and  the  younger  Lady  Calmady,  as  they 
slowly  paced  the  straight  walk  between  the  gray  balustrade  and 
the  edge  of  the  turf.  On  their  left  the  great  outstretch  of 
valley  and  wood  lay  drowned  in  the  suave  uncertainties  of  the 
summer  night.  Before  them  was  the  whole  terrace-front  of 
the  house,  its  stacks  of  twisted  chimneys  clear  cut  against  the 
sky.  Bright  light  shone  out  from  the  windows  of  the  red 
drawing-room,  and  from  those  of  the  hall,  bringing  flowers, 
sections  of  gray  pavement,  and  like  details  into  sharp  relief. 
There  were  passing  lights  in  the  range  of  windows  above, 
suggesting  cheerful  movement  within  the  great  house.  At 
the  southern  end  of  the  terrace,  just  below  the  arcade  of  the 
garden-hall — which  showed  pale  against  the  shadow  within 
and  brickwork  above — two  men  were  sitting.  Their  voices 
reached  the  ladies  now  and  then  in  quiet  yet  animated  talk. 
A  spirit  of  peace,  of  security,  of  firmly-planted  hope,  seemed 
to  pervade  all  the  scene,  all  the  place.  Waking  or  sleeping, 
fear  was  banished.  All  was  strong  to  work  to-morrow,  so  to- 
night all  could  calmly  yield  itself  to  rest. 

And  it  was  a  sense  of  just  this,  and  a  tender  anxiety  lest 
the  fulness  of  the  gracious  content  of  it  should  be  in  any  de- 
gree marred  to  her  dear  companion,  which  made  Honoria 
Calmady  say  presently  : — 

"You  don*t  mind  little  Dick's  racketting  with  those  ridicu- 


THE  NEW  HEAVEN  AND  NEW  EARTH    68r 

lous  puppies,  do  you,  Cousin  Katherine  ?     If  it  bothers  you 
ril  stop  him  like  a  shot." 

But  Katherine  shook  her  head. 

"My  dearest  child,  why  stop  him?"  she  said.  "The 
foolishnesses  of  young  creatures  at  play  are  delicious,  and  laugh- 
ter, so  long  as  it  is  not  cruel,  I  reckon  among  the  good  gifts  of 
God." — She  paused  a  moment.  "  Dear  Marie  de  Mirancourt 
tried  to  teach  me  that  long  ago,  but  I  was  culpably  dull  of 
hearing  in  those  days  where  spiritual  truth  was  concerned,  and 
I  failed  to  grasp  her  meaning.  I  believe  we  never  really  love, 
either  man  or  Almighty  God,  until  we  can  both  laugh  our- 
selves and  let  others  laugh.  Of  all  false  doctrines  that  of  the 
sour-faced,  joyless  puritan  is  the  falsest.  His  mere  outward 
aspect  is  a  sin  against  the  Holy  Ghost." 

And  Honoria  smiled,  patting  the  hand  which  lay  on  her  arm 
very  tenderly. 

"  How  I  love  your  heavenly  rage  !  "  she  said.  They  moved 
on  a  few  steps  in  silence.  Then,  careless  of  all  the  rapture  its 
notification  of  the  passing  of  time  might  cut  short,  the  clock 
at  the  house-stables  chimed  the  half-hour.  Honoria  paused  in 
her  gentle  walk. 

"  Bedtime,  Dick,"  she  cried. 

"  All  right,"  the  boy  returned.  He  pursued,  and  laid  hold 
of,  the  errant  puppies,  stowing  them,  not  without  kickings  and 
strugglings  on  their  part,  one  under  either  arm.  They  were 
large  and  heavy,  just  as  much  as  he  could  carry,  and  he 
staggered  across  the  grass  with  them,  presenting  the  effect  of 
a  small,  black  donkey  between  a  pair  of  very  big,  white  pan- 
niers. 

"I  say,  they  are  awfully  stunning  though,  you  know, 
Honoria,"  he  said  rather  breathlessly  as  he  came  up  to  her. 

"Very  soul-satisfying,  aren't  they,  Dick?"  she  replied. 
"  Richard  foresaw  as  much.  That  is  why  he  got  them  for 
you." 

"  If  I  put  them  down  do  you  suppose  they'll  follow  ? 
Carrying  them  does  make  my  arms  ache." 

"  Oh,  they'll  follow  fast  enough,"  Honoria  said. 

He  lowered  the  puppies  circumspectly  on  to  the  gravel. 

*' They'll  be  whoppers  when  they're  grown,"  he  remarked. 

"What  shall  you  call  them  ?  " 
Adam  and  Eve  I  think,  because  they're  the  first  of  my 


44 


682  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

lot.     They're  pedigree   dogs — and  later  I  may  want  to  show, 
don't  you  see." 

"Yes,  I  see,"  Honoria  said. 

He  came  close  to  her,  putting  his  face  up  half  shyly  to  be 
kissed.  Then  as  young  Lady  Calmady,  somewhat  ghostly  in 
her  trailing,  white  evening  dress,  bent  her  charming  head,  the 
boy,  suddenly  overcome  with  the  manifold  excitements  of  the 
day,  flung  his  arms  round  her. 

"  Oh  !  oh  !  "  he  gasped,  "  how  awfully  ripping  it  is  to  be 
back  here  again  with  you  and  Cousin  Richard  and  Aunt 
Katherine  !  I  wish  number-four  dormitory  would  get  measles 
the  middle  of  every  term  ! — Only  I  forgot — perhaps  I  ought 
not  to  touch  you,  Honoria,  after  messing  about  with  the  dogs. 
Do  you  mind  ?  " 

"  Not  a  bit,"  she  said. 

"  But,  Honoria," — he  rubbed  his  cool  cheek  against  her 
bare  neck — "I  say,  don't  you  think  you  might  come  and  see 
me,  just  for  a  little  weeny  while,  after  I'm  in  bed  to-night  ?  '* 

And  young  Lady  Calmady,  thus  coaxed,  held  the  slight 
figure  close.  She  had  a  very  special  place  in  her  heart  for 
this  small  Dick,  who  in  face,  and  as  she  hoped  in  nature  also, 
bore  such  comfortable  resemblance  to  that  elder,  and  altogether 
well-beloved,  Dick  who  was  the  delight  of  her  life. 

"  Yes,  dear,  old  chap,  I'll  come,"  she  said.  "  Only  it  must 
really  be  for  a  little,  weeny  while,  because  you  must  go  to 
sleep.  By  the  way,  who's  going  to  valet  you  these  holidays  ? 
Clara  or  Faulstich  ?  " 

"  Oh,  neither,"  the  boy  answered.  "  I  think  I'm  rather 
old  for  women  now,  don't  you  know,  Honoria." — At  which 
statement  she  laughed,  his  cheek  being  again  tucked  tight  into 
the  turn  of  her  neck.  "I  shall  have  Andrews  in  future.  I 
asked  Cousin  Richard  about  it.  He's  a  very  civil-mannered 
fellow,  and  he  knows  about  yachts  and  things,  and  he  says  he 
likes  being  up  before  five  o'clock." 

"  Does  he  ?  Excellently  veracious  young  man  !  '^  Honoria 
remarked. 

But  thereupon,  exuberance  of  joy  demanding  active  expres- 
sion, the  boy  broke  away  with  a  whoop  and  set  ofF  running. 
The  puppies  lolloped  away  at  his  heels.  And  young  Lady 
Calmady — whom  such  giddy  fancies  still  took  at  times,  not- 
withstanding nearly  three  years   of  marriage — flew  after  the 


THE  NEW  HEAVEN  AND  NEW  EARTH    683 

trio,  the  train  of  her  dress  floating  out  behind  her  to  most 
admired  extravagance  of  length  as  she  skimmed  along  the  path. 
Fair  lady,  boy,  and  dogs  disappeared,  with  sounds  of  merri- 
ment, into  the  near  garden-hall ;  reappeared  upon  the  terrace, 
bearing  down,  but  at  sobering  pace,  upon  the  occupants  of  the 
chairs  set  at  the  end  of  it.  One  man  rose  to  his  feet,  a  tall, 
narrow,  black  figure.  The  other  remained  seated.  The 
light  shining  forth  from  the  great  bay-window  of  the  hall 
touched  the  little  group,  conferring  a  certain  grandeur  upon 
the  graceful,  white-clad  Honoria.  Her  satin  dress  shimmered 
as  she  moved.  There  was,  as  of  old,  a  triumph  of  high 
purity,  of  freedom  of  soul,  in  her  aspect.  Her  voice  came, 
with  a  fine  gladness  yet  soft'  richness  of  tone,  across  that 
intervening  triangular  space  of  sloping  turf  upon  which  ter- 
race and  troco-ground  alike  looked  down.  The  nightingale, 
who  had  fallen  silent  during  the  skirmish,  took  up  his  passion- 
ate singing  again,  and  was  answered  delicately,  a  song  not  of 
the  flesh  but  of  the  spirit,  by  the  bird  from  across  the  valley. 

Katherine  Calmady  stood  solitary,  watching,  listening,  her 
hands  folded  rather  high  on  her  bosom.  The  caressing  suavity 
of  the  summer  night  enfolded  her.  And  remembrance  came 
to  her  of  another  night,  nearly  four-and-thirty  years  ago,  when, 
standing  in  this  same  spot,  she,  young,  untried,  ambitious  of 
unlimited  delight,  had  felt  the  first  mysterious  pangs  of 
motherhood,  and  told  her  husband  of  that  new,  unseen  life 
which  was  at  once  his  and  her  own.  And  of  yet  another 
night,  when,  after  long  experience  of  sorrow,  solitude,  and 
revolt,  her  husband  had  come  to  her  once  again — but  come 
€ven  as  the  bird's  song  came  from  across  the  valley,  ethereal- 
ised,  spiritualised,  the  same  yet  endowed  with  qualities  of  un- 
earthly beauty — and  how  that  strange  and  exquisite  commun- 
ion with  the  dead  had  fortified  her  to  endure  an  anguish  even 
greater  than  any  she  had  yet  known. — She  had  prayed  that 
night  that  she  might  behold  the  face  of  her  well-beloved,  and 
her  prayer  had  been  granted.  She  had  prayed  that,  without 
reservation,  she  might  be  absorbed  by,  and  conformed  to,  the 
Divine  Will.  And  that  prayer  had,  as  she  humbly  trusted, 
been  in  great  measure  granted  also.  But  then  the  Divine 
Will  had  proved  so  very  merciful,  the  Divine  Intention  so 
wholly  beneficent,  there  was  small  credit  in  being  conformed 
to  either  ! — Katherine  bowed  her  head  in  thanksgiving.     The 


684  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

goodness  of  the  Almighty  towards  her  had  been  abundant  be- 
yond asking  or  fondest  hope. 

She  was  aroused  from  her  gracious  meditation  by  the  sound 
of  footsteps — measured,  a  little  weary  perhaps — approaching 
her.  She  looked  up  to  see  Julius  March.  And  a  point  of 
gentle  anxiety  pricked  Katherine.  For  it  occurred  to  her  that 
Julius  had  failed  somewhat  in  health  and  energy  of  late.  She 
reproached  herself  lest,  in  the  interest  of  watching  those 
vigorous,  young  lives  so  dear  to  her,  participating  in  their 
schemes,  basking  in  the  sunshine  of  their  love,  she  had 
neglected  Julius  and  failed  to  care  for  his  comfort  as  she 
might.  To  those  that  have  shall  be  given  even  of  sympathy, 
even  of  strength.  In  that  there  is  an  ironical  as  well  as  an 
equitable  truth ;  and  she  was  to  blame  perhaps  in  the  ironical 
application  of  it.  It  followed  therefore,  that  she  greeted  him 
now  with  a  quickening  both  of  solicitude  and  of  affection. 

"  Come  and  pace,  dear  Julius,  come  and  pace,"  she  said, 
"as  in  times  past.  Yet  not  wholly  as  in  the  past,  for  then 
often  I  must  have  distressed  and  troubled  you,  since  my  pa- 
cings were  too  often  the  outcome  of  restlessness  and  of  unruly 
passion,  while  now " 

Katherine  broke  off,  gazing  at  the  little  company  gathered 
upon  the  terrace. 

"  Surely  they  are  very  happy  ?  "  she  said,  almost  involun- 
tarily. 

And  he,  smiling  at  his  dear  lady's  incapacity  of  escape  from 
her  fixed  idea,  replied  : — 

"  Yes,  very  surely." 

Katherine  tied  the  white,  lace  coif  she  wore  a  little  tighter 
beneath  her  chin. 

"  In  their  happiness  I  renew  that  of  my  own  youth,"  she 
said  gently,  "  as  it  is  granted  to  few  women,  I  imagine,  to 
renew  it.  But  I  renew  it  with  a  reverence  for  them ;  since 
my  own  happiness  was  plain  sailing  enough,  obvious,  incon- 
testable, whilst  theirs  is  nobler,  and  rises  to  a  higher  plane. 
For  its  roots,  after  all,  are  planted  in  very  mournful  fact,  to 
which  it  has  risen  superior,  and  over  which  it  has  triumphed." 

But  he  answered,  jealous  of  his  dear  lady's  self-deprecia- 
tion : — 

"  I  can  hardly  admit  that.  To  begin  in  unclouded  promise 
of  happiness,  to  decline  to  searchmg  and  unusual  experience 


THE  NEW  HEAVEN  AND  NEW  EARTH    685 

of  sorrow,  and  then,  by  self-discipline  and  obedience,  to  attain 
your  present  altitude  of  tranquillity  and  assurance  of  faith,  is 
surely  a  greater  trial,  a  greater  triumph,  than  to  begin  with 
difficulties,  with  much,  I  admit,  to  overcome  and  resist,  but  to 
succeed  as  they  are  succeeding  and  be  granted  the  high  land 
of  happiness  which  they  even  now  possess  ?  They  are  young, 
fortune  smiles  on  them.  Above  all,  they  have  one  an- 
other  " 

"  Ah,  yes  !  "  she  said,  "  they  have  one  another.  Long  may 
that  last.  It  is  a  very  perfect  marriage  of  true  minds,  as  well 
as  true  hearts.  I  had,  and  they  have,  all  that  love  can  give," 
— Lady  Calmady  turned  at  the  end  of  the  walk.  "  But  it 
troubles  me,  as  a  sort  of  emptiness  and  waste,  dear  Julius, 
that  you  have  never  had  that.  It  pains  me  that  you,  who 
possess  so  noble  a  power  of  disinterested  and  untiring  friend- 
ship, should  never  have  enjoyed  that  other,  and  nearer  rela- 
tion, which  transcends  friendship  even  as  to-morrow's  dawn 
will  transcend  in  loveliness  the  chastened  restfulness  of  this 
evening's  dusk." 

Katherine  moved  onward  with  a  certain  sweet  dignity  of 
manner. 

"  Tell  me — is  she  still  alive,  Julius,  this  lady  whom  you  so 
loved  ? " 

"  Yes,  thank  God,"  he  said. 

*' And  you  have  never  tried  to  elude  that  vow  which — as 
you  once  told  me — you  made  long  ago  before  you  knew 
her  ? " 

"  Never,"  he  replied.  "  Without  it  I  could  not  have 
served  her  as  I  have  been  able  to  serve  her.  I  am  wholly 
thankful  for  it.  It  made  much  possible  which  must  have 
otherwise  been  impossible." 

"  And  have  you  never  told  her  that  you  loved  her — even 
yet?" 

"  No,**  he  replied,  "  because,  had  I  told  her,  I  must  have 
ceased  to  serve  her,  I  must  have  left  her,  Katherine,  and  I  did 
not  think  God  required  that  of  me." 

Lady  Calmady  walked  on  in  silence,  her  head  a  little  bent. 
At  the  end  of  the  path  she  stood  a  moment,  listening  to  the 
answering  songs  of  the  two  nightingales. 

"  Ah  !  "  she  said  softly,  "  how  greatly  I  have  under-rated 
the  beauty  of  the  dusk !     To  submit  to  dwell  in  the  border- 


686  SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY 

land,  to  stand  on  the  dim  bridge,  thus,  between  day  and  nighty, 
demands  perhaps  the  very  finest  courage  conceivable.  You 
have  shown  me,  Julius,  how  exquisite  and  holy  a  thing  it  is. 
— And,  as  to  her  whom  you  have  so  faithfully  loved,  I  think, 
could  she  know,  she  would  thank  you  very  deeply  for  never 
telling  her  the  truth.  She  would  entreat  you  to  keep  your 
secret  to  the  end.  But  to  remain  near  her,  to  let  her  seek 
counsel  of  you  when  in  perplexity  or  distress,  to  talk  with  her 
both  of  those  you  and  she  love,  and  have  loved,  and  of  the 
promise  of  fair  things  beyond  and  above  our  present  seeing — 
pacing  with  her  at  times — even  as  you  and  I,  dear  friend,  pace 
together  here  to-night — amid  the  restrained  and  solemn  beauty 
of  the  dusk.     Would  she  not  do  this  ?  " 

"  It  is  enough  that  you  have  done  it  for  her,  Katherine," 
he  answered.  "  With  your  ruling  I  am  wholly,  unendingly 
content." 

"  Perhaps  Dickie  and  Honoria's  dear  works  of  mercy  and 
the  noonday  tide  of  energy  which  flows  through  the  house^ 
have  caused  us  to  see  less  of  each  other  than  of  old,"  Lady 
Calmady  continued  with  a  charming  lightness.  "  That  is  a 
mistake  needing  correction.  The  young  to  the  young,  dear 
Julius.  You  and  I,  who  go  at  a  quieter  pace,  will  enjoy  our 
peaceful  friendship  to  the  full.  I  shall  not  tire  of  your  com- 
pany, I  promise  you,  if  you  do  not  of  mine.  Long  may  you 
be  spared  to  me.  God  keep  you,  most  loyal  friend.  Good- 
night." 

Then  Lady  Calmady,  deeply  touched,  yet  unmoved  from 
her  altitude  of  thankfulness  and  calm,  musing  of  many  mat- 
ters and  the  working  out  of  them  to  a  beneficent  and  noble 
end,  slowly  went  the  length  of  the  terrace  to  where,  at  the 
foot  of  the  steps  of  the  garden-hall,  Richard  still  sat.  As  she 
came  near  he  held  out  his  hand  to  her. 

"  Dear,  sweet  mother,"  he  said,  "  how  I  like  to  see  you 
walk  in  that  stately  fashion,  the  whole  of  you — body,  mind, 
and  spirit,  somehow  evident — gathered  up  within  the  delicious 
compass  of  yourself!  As  far  back  as  I  can  remember  any- 
thing. I  remember  that.  When  I  watched  you  it  always- 
made  me  feel  safe.  It  seemed  more  like  music  heard,  some- 
how, than  something  seen." 

"  Dickie,  Dickie,"  she  exclaimed^  flushing  a  little,  "  don't 
make  me  vain  in  my  old  age  !  " 


THE  NEW  HEAVEN  AND  NEW  EARTH  687 

"  But  it's  true,"  he  said.  "And  why  shouldn't  one  tell  the 
pretty  truths  as  well  as  the  plain  ones  ? — Isn't  it  a  positively 
divine  night  ?  Look  at  the  moon  just  clearing  the  top  of  the 
firs  there  !  It  is  good  to  be  alive.  Mother — may  I  say  it  ? — 
I  am  very  grateful  to  you  for  having  brought  me  into  the 
world." 

"Ah  !  but,  my  poor  darling — "  Katherine  cried. 

"  No,  no,"  he  said,  "  put  that  out  of  your  dear  head  once 
and  for  all.  I  am  grateful,  being  as  I  am,  grateful  for  every- 
thing, it  being  as  it  is.  I  don't  believe  I  would  have  any- 
thing— not  anything  save  those  four  years  when  I  left  you — 
altered,  even  if  I  could.  I've  found  my  work,  and  it  enlarges 
its  borders  in  all  manner  of  directions ;  and  it  prospers.  And 
I  have  money  to  put  it  through.  And  I  have  that  boy.  He's 
a  dear  little  chap,  and  it  is  wonderfully  good  of  Uncle  Roger 
and  Mary  to  give  him  to  me.  But  he's  getting  a  trifle  too 
fond  of  horses.  I  can't  break  poor,  old  Chifney's  heart ;  but 
when  his  days  are  numbered,  those  of  the  stables — as  far  as 
training  racers  goes — are  numbered  likewise,  I  think.  I'll 
keep  on  the  stud  farm.  But  I  grow  doubtful  about  the  rest.  I 
wish  it  wasn't  so,  but  so  it  is.  Sport  is  changing  hands,  pass- 
ing from  those  of  romance  into  those  of  commerce. — Well, 
the  stables  served  their  turn.  They  helped  to  bring  me 
through.     But  now  perhaps  they're  a  little  out  of  the  picture." 

Richard  drew  her  hand  nearer  and  kissed  it,  leaning  back  in 
his  chair,  and  looking  up  at  her. 

"And  I  have  you — "  he  said,  "you  most  perfect  of 
mothers. — And — ah  !  here  comes  Honoria !  " 


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THE  WOMAN  IN  THE  ALCOVE  Anna  Katharine  Green 

THE  INDIFFERENCE  OF  JULIET  Grace  S.  Richmond 

THE  MISSOURIAN        .        .        .  Eugene  P.  Lyle,  Jr. 


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l^ANCY  STAIR 

MY  LADY  OF  THE  NORTH     . 

TEE  FUGITIVE  BLACKSMITH 

VASHTI         .... 

FOR  LOVE  OR  CROWN 

UP  FROM  SLAVERY 

THE  SEATS  OF  THE  MIGHTY 

CAP^N  ERI  .         .         •         , 

WHEN  WILDERNESS  WAS  KING 


Elinor  Macartney  Lane 

Randall  Parrish 

Charles  D.  Stewart 

Augusta  Evans  Wilson 

Arthur  W.  Marchmont 

Booker  T.  Washington 

Gilbert  Parker 

Joseph  C.  Lincoln 

Randall  Parrish 


Anna  Katharine  Green 

Edgar  Allan  Poe 

Arthur  W.  Marchmont  * 

Francis  Lynde 

Herbert  Quick 

Lucas  Malet 


THE  LEAVENWORTH  CASE 

MYSTERY  TALES 

A  COURIER  OF  FORTUNE      , 

THE  QUICKENING 

DOUBLE  TROUBLE       . 

SIR  RICHARD  CALMADY     . 

CASTING  AWAY  OF  MRS.  LECKS 

AND  MRS.  ALESHINE      .     .       Frank  R.  Stockton 
A  SPECKLED  BIRD  .        .     Augusta  Evans  Wilson 

ORDER  NO.  II  .  .  .  Caroline  Abbot  Stanley 
THEBELLEOF BOWLING  GREEN  .  Amelia  E.  Ban 
SARITA  THE  CARLIST        .         Arthur  W.  Marchmont 


A.  L.  BURT  CO.,  Publishers,  52-58  Duane  5t.»  New  Yonc 


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THE  PRODIGAL  SON Hall  Caine 

ADVENTURES  OF  GERARD        ...        A.  Conan  Doyle 

A  CAPTAIN  IN  THE  RANKS         .  George  Gary  Eggleston 

THE  DELIVERANCE Ellen  Glasgow 

THE  BATTLE  GPwOUND  ....        Ellen  Glasgow 

THE  VOICE  OF  THE  PEOPLE      .        .        .        Ellen  Glasgow 

THE  MILLIONAIRE  BABY        .        .        Anna  Katharine  Green 

THE  BRETHREN H.  Rider  Haggard 

THE  BOSS Alfred  Henry  Lewis 

THE  PRESIDENT      .        .        .        .        .        Alfred  Henry  Lewis 

BOB,  SON  OF  BATTLE Alfred  OUivant 

NONE  BUT  THE  BRAVE        ....         Hamblen  Sears 

THE  DARROW  ENIGMA         ....         Melvin  Severy 

THE  TWO  VANREVELS     ....        Booth  Tarkington 

THE  CIRCLE Catharine  Cecil  Thurston 

Author  of  "The;  MASQUKRADERS,"  "THK  GAMBI^KR.'' 

tPURRICANE  ISLAND         .        .        .  H.  B.  Marriott- Watson 

THE  LONG  NIGHT         ....  Stanley  J.  Weyman 

INFELICE Augusta  Evans  Wilson 

ARMS  AND  THE  WOMAN         .        .  .         Harold  MacGrath 

THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING         .         Gilbert  Parker 

THE  HEART'S  HIGHWAY         .        .  .         Mary  E.  Wilkins 

TALES  OF  SHERLOCK  HOLMES        .  .        A.  Conan  Doyle 

ROSE  OF  THE  WORLD        .        .        Agnes  and  Egerton  Castle 

THAT  PRINTER  OF  UDELL'S       .        .        Harold  Bell  Wright 

IN  THE  NAME  OF  A  WOMAN         .  Arthur  W.  Marchmonl 

THE  QUEEN'S  ADVOCATE        .        .  Arthur  W.  Marchmont 

BY  SNARE  OF  LOVE         .        .        .  Arthur  W.  Marchmont 

WEEN  I  WAS  CZAR         .        ,        .  Arthur  W.  Marchmont 


A.  L.  BURT  CO.,  Publishers.  52-58  Duane  St.,  New  York 


Good  Fiction  Worth  Reading. 

A  series  of  romances  containing  several  of  the  old  favorites  in  the  field 
of  historical  fiction,  replete  with  powerful  romances  of  love  and  diplomacy 
that  excel  in  thrilling  and  absorbing  interest. 


GUY  FAWKES.  A  Romance  of  the  Gunpowder  Treason.  By  Wm.  HarH- 
sou  Ainsworth.  Cloth,  i2mo.  with  four  illustrations  by  George  Cruikshank, 
Price,  Ji.oo. 

The  "Gunpowder  Plot"  was  a  modest  attempt  to  blow  up  Parliament, 
the  King  and  his  Counsellors.  James  of  Scotland,  then  King  of  England, 
was  weak-minded  and  extravagant.  He  hit  upon  the  efficient  scheme  of 
extorting  money  from  the  people  by  imposing  taxes  on  the  Catholics.  In 
their  natural  resentment  to  this  extortion,  a  handful  of  bold  spirits  con- 
cluded to  overthrow  the  government.  Finally  the  plotters  were  arrested, 
and  the  King  put  to  torture  Guy  Fawkes  and  the  other  prisoners  with 
royal  vigor.     A  very  intense  love  story  runs  through  the   entire  romance. 

THE  SPIRIT  OF  THE  BORDER.  A  Romance  of  the  Karly  Settlers  in  the 
Ohio  Valley.  By  Zane  Grey.  Cloth.  i2mo.  with  four  illustrations  by  J.  Watson 
Davis.    Price,  $i .  oo. 

A  book  rather  out  of  the  ordinary  Is  this  "Spirit  of  the  Border."  The 
main  thread  of  the  story  has  to  do  with  the  work  of  the  Moravian  mia- 
fiionaries  in  the  Ohio  Valley.  Incidentally  the  reader  is  given  details  of  the 
frontier  life  of  those  hardy  pioneers  who  broke  the  wilderness  for  the  plant- 
ing of  this  great  nation.  Chief  among  these,  as  a  matter  of  course,  is 
Lewis  Wetzel,  one  of  the  most  peculiar,  and  at  the  same  time  the  most 
admirable  of  all  the  brave  men  who  spent  their  lives  battling  with  the 
savage  foe,   that  others  might  dwell  in  comparative  security. 

Details  of  the  establishment  and  destruction  of  the  Moravian  "Village 
of  Peace"  are  given  at  some  length,  and  with  minute  description.  The 
efforts  to  Christianize  the  Indians  are  described  as  they  never  have  been 
before,  and  the  author  has  depicted  the  characters  of  the  leaders  of  the 
several  Indian  tribes  with  great  care,  which  of  itself  will  be  of  interest  to 
the    student. 

By  no  means  least  among  the  charms  of  the  story  are  the  vivfd  word- 
pictures  of  the  thrilling  adventures,  and  the  intense  paintings  of  the  beau- 
ties of  nature,   as  seen   in  the  almost  unbroken  forests. 

It  is  the  spirit  of  the  frontier  which  is  described,  and  one  can  by  if, 
perhaps,  the  better  understand  why  men,  and  women,  too,  willingly  braved 
every  privation  and  danger  that  the  westward  progress  of  the  star  of  em- 
pire might  be  the  more  certain  and  rapid.  A  love  story,  simple  and  tender, 
runs  through  the  book. 

RICHELIEU.  A  tale  of  France  in  the  reign  of  King  Louis  XIII.  By  G.  P. 
R.  James.  Cloth,  i2mo.  with  four  illustrations  by  J.  Watson  Davis.  Price,  $i.oo. 

In  1829  Mr.  James  published  his  first  romance,  "Richelieu,"  and  was 
recognized  at  once  as  one  of  the  masters  of  the  craft. 

In  this  book  he  laid  the  story  during  those  later  days  of  the  great  car- 
dinal's life,  when  his  power  was  beginning  to  wane,  but  while  it  was 
yet  sufficiently  strong  to  permit  now  and  then  of  volcanic  outbursts  which 
overwhelmed  foes  awd  carried  friends  to  the  topmost  wave  of  prosperity. 
One  of  the  most  striking  portions  of  the  story  is  that  of  Cinq  Mar's  conspir- 
acy; the  method  of  conducting  criminal  cases,  and  the  political  trickery 
resorted  to  by  royal  favorites,  affording  a  better  insight  into  the  state- 
craft of  that  day  than  can  be  had  even  by  an  exhaustive  study  of  history. 
It  is  a  powerful  romance  of  love  and  diplomacy,  and  in  point  of  thrilling 
and   absorbing    interest  has   never  been   excelled. 

Fcr  sale  by  all  booksellers,  or  sent  postpaid  on  receipt  of  price  by  the  ptlb- 
lishers,  A.  L.  BURT  COMPANY,  53-53  Duanc  St.,  New  York. 


Good  Fiction  Worth  Readings 

A  series  of  romances  containing  several  of  the  old  favorites  in  the  field' 
of  historical  fiction,  replete  with  powerful  romances  of  love  and  diplomacy 
that  excel  in  thrilling  and  absorbing  interest. 


DARNLEY.  A  Romance  of  the  times  of  Henry  VIII.  and  Cardinal  Wolsey» 
By  G.  P.  R.  James.  Cloth,  i2mo.  with  four  illustrations  by  J.  Watson  Davis, 
Price,  Ji.oo. 

In  point  of  publication,  "Darnley"  is  that  work  by  Mr.  James  which 
follows  "Richelieu,"  and,  if  rumor  can  be  credited,  it  was  owing  to  the  ad- 
vice and  insistence  of  our  own  Washington  Irving  that  we  are  indebted 
primarily  for  the  story,  the  young  author  questioning  whether  he  could 
properly  paint  the  difference  in  the  characters  of  the  two  great  cardinals. 
And  it  is  not  surprising  that  James  should  have  hesitated;  he  had  been 
eminently  successful  in  giving  to  the  world  the  portrait  of  Richelieu  as  a., 
man,  and  by  attempting  a  similar  task  with  W^clsey  as  the  theme,  was. 
much  like  tempting  fortune.  Irving  insisted  that  "Darnley"  came  natur- 
ally In  sequence,  and  this  opinion  being  supported  by  Sir  Walter  Scott, 
the  author  set  about  the  work. 

As  a  historical  romance  "Darnley"  is  a  book  that  can  be  taken  VLp^ 
pleasurably  again  and  again,  for  there  is  about  it  that  subtle  charm  which, 
those  who  are  strangers  to  the  works  of  G.  P.  R.  James  have  claimed  waB 
only  to  be  imparted  by  Dumas. 

If  there  was  nothing  more  about  the  work  to  attract  especial  attention, 
the  account  of  the  meeting  of  the  kings  on  the  historic  "field  of  tha  cloth  of 
irold"  would  entitle  the  story  to  the  most  favorable  consideration  of  every 
reader. 

There  is  really  but  little  pure  romance  in  this  story,  for  the  author  ha» 
taken  care  to  imagine  love  passages  only  between  those  whom  history  hate 
credited  with  having  entertained  the  tender  passion  one  for  another,  and 
he  succeeds  In  making  such  lovers  as  all  the  world  must  love. 

CAPTAIN  BRAND,  OF  THE  SCHOONER  CENTIPEDE.  By  Lieut. 
Henry  A.Wise,  U.S.N.  (Harry  Gringo).  Cloth,  i2mo.  with  four  illustra- 
tions by  J.  Watson  Davis.    Price,  $i.oo. 

The  re-publlcation  of  this  story  will  please  those  lovers  of  sea  yarns- 
who  delight  in  so  much  of  the  salty  flavor  of  the  ocean  as  can  come  through 
the  medium  of  a  printed  page,  for  never  has  a  story  of  the  sea  and  those- 
"who  go  down  in  ships"  been  written  by  one  more  familiar  with  the  scenes, 
depicted. 

The  one  book  of  this  gifted  author  which  is  best  remembered,  and  which 
will  be  read  with  pleasure  for  many  years  to  come,  is  "Captain  Brand," 
who,  as  the  author  states  on  his  title  page,  was  a  "pirate  of  eminence  In 
the  West  Indies."  As  a  sea  story  pure  and  simple,  "Captain  Brand"  ha» 
never  been  excelled^  and  as  a  story  of  piratical  life,  told  without  the  usual 
embt'llishments  of  blood  and  thunder,   it  has  no  equal. 

NICK  OF  THE  WOODS.  A  story  of  the  Early  Settlers  of  Kentucky.  By 
Robert  Montgomery  Bird.  Cloth,  lamo.  with  four  illustrations  by  J.  Watson 
JDavis.    Price,  |i.oo. 

This  most  popular  novel  and  thrilling  story  of  early  frontier  life  in 
Kentucky  was  originally  published  in  the  year  1837.  The  novel,  long  out  of 
print,  had  In  Its  day  a  phenomenal  sale,  for  its  realistic  presentation  of 
Indian  and  frontier  life  In  the  early  days  of  settlement  In  the  South,  nar- 
rated In  the  tale  with  all  the  art  of  a  practiced  writer.  A  very  charmlnp^ 
love  romance  runs  through  the  story.  This  new  and  tasteful  edition  of 
"Nick  of  the  "Woods"  will  be  certain  to  make  many  new  admirers  for 
this   enchanting   story  from  Dr.    Bird's  clever  and   versatile   pen. 


Vot  sale  "by  all  booksellers,  or  sent  postpaid  on  receipt  of  price  by  the  pub- 
lishers, A.  L.  BURT  COMPANY,  53-58  Duaac  SU,  New  York. 


Good  Fiction  Worth  Reading. 

A  series  of  romances  containing  several  of  the  old  favorites  in  the  field 
of  historical  fiction,  replete  with  powerful  romances  of  love  and  diplomacy 
that  excel  in  thrilling  and  absorbing  interest. 


A  COLONIAL  FREE-LANCE.    A  story  of  American  Colonial  Times.     By 

Chauncey  C.  Hotchkiss.    Cloth,  i2mo.  with  four  illustrations  by   J.  Watson 

Davis.    Piice,  Ji.oa 

A  book  that  appeals  to  Americans  as  a  vivid  picture  of  Revolutionary 
scenes.  The  story  is  a  strong  one,  a  thrilling  one.  It  causes  the  true 
American  to  flush  with  excitement,  to  devour  chapter  after  chapter,  until 
the  eyes  smart,  and  it  fairly  smoker  with  patriotism.  The  love  story  is  a 
singularly  charming  idyl. 

THE  TOWER  OF  LONDON.  A  Historical  Romance  of  the  Times  of  Lady 
Jane  Grey  and  Mary  Tudor.  By  Wm.  Harrison  Ainsworth.  Cloth.  i2mo.  with 
four  illustratious  by  George  Cruikshank.    Price,  $i.oo. 

This  romance  of  the  "Tower  of  London"  depicts  the  Tower  as  palace, 
prison  and  fortress,  with  many  historical  associations.  The  era  is  the 
middle  of  the  sixteenth  oentury. 

The  story  is  divided  into  two  parts,  one  dealing  with  Lady  Jane  Grey, 
and  the  other  with  Mary  Tudor  as  Queen,  introducing  other  notable  char- 
acters of  the  era.  Throughout  the  story  holds  the  interest  of  the  reader 
In  the  midst  of  intrigue  and  conspiracy,  extending  considerably  ovar  a 
half  a  century. 

IN  DEFIANCE  OF  THE  KING.    A  Romance  of  the  American  Revolution. 

By  Chauncey  C.  Hotchkiss.    Cloth,  i2mo.  with  four  illustrations  by  J.  Watson 

Davis.    Price,  |i.oo. 

Mr.  Hotchkiss  has  etched  in  burning  words  a  story  of  Yankee  bravery, 
and  true  love  that  thrills  from  beginning  to  end,  with  the  spirit  of  the 
Revolution.  The  heart  beats  quickly,  and  we  feel  ourselves  taking  a 
part  in  the  exciting  scenes  described.  Hie  whole  story  is  so  absorbing 
that  you  will  sit  up  far  Into  the  night  to  finish  it.  As  a  love  romance 
it    is    charming. 

GARTHO^VEN.    A  story  of  a  Welsh  Homestead.    By  Allen  Raine.     Cloth, 

i^mo.  with  four  illustrations  by  J.  Watson  Davis.    Price,  $i.oo. 

"This  Is  a  little  idyl  of  humble  life  and  enduring  love,  laid  bare  before 
us,  very  real  and  pure,  which  in  its  telling  shows  us  some  strong  points  of 
T-v  eJsh  character— the  pride,  the  hasty  temper,  the  quick  dying  out  of  wrath. 
.  We  call  this  a  well-written  story,  interesting  alike  through  its 
romance  and  its  glimpses  into  another  life  than  ours.  A  delightful  and 
?lftver  picture  of  Welsh  village  life.  The  result  is  excellent."— Detroit  Free 
Pre  as. 

MIFANWY.     The  story  of  a  Welsh  Singer.       By  Allan  Raine.      Cloth, 

i2mo.  with  four  illustrations  by  J.  Watson  Davis.    Price,  |i.oo. 

"This  is  a  love  story,  simple,  tender  and  pretty  as  one  would  care  to 
read.  The  action  throughout  is  brisk  and  pleasing;  the  characters,  it  Is  ap- 
parent at  once,  are  as  true  to  life  as  tiiough  the  author  had  known  them 
all  personally.  Simple  in  all  its  situations,  the  story  is  worked  up  in  that 
touching  and  quaint  strain  which  never  grows  wearisome,  no  matter  how 
often  the  lights  and  shadows  of  love  are  mtroduced.  It  rings  true,  and 
does  not  tax  the  imagination." — Boston  Herald. 


For  sale  by  all  booksellers,  or  sent  postpaid  on  receipt  of  price  by  the  pub- 
Ushers,  A,  L.  BURT  COMPANY,  52-58  Duaac  St.,  New  York. 


Good  Fiction  Worth  Reading. 

A  series  of  romances  containing  several  of  the  old  favorites  in  the  fiel<5 
of  historical  fiction,  replete  with  powerful  romances  of  love  and  diplomacy 
that  excel  in  thrilling  and  absorbing  interest. 


WINDSOR  CASTLE.  A  Historical  Romance  of  the  Reign  of  Henry  VIII. 
Catharine  of  Aragon  and  Anne  Boleyn.  By  Wm.  Harrison  Ainsworth.  Cloth 
::2aio.  with  four  illustrations  by  George  Cruikshank.    Price,  |i.oo. 

"Windsor  Castle"  Is  the  story  of  Henry  VIII.,  ^Catharine,  and  Anne 
Boleyn.  "Bluff  King  Hal,"  although  a  well-loved  monarch,  was  none  too 
fTood  a  one  in  many  ways.  Of  all  his  selfishness  and  unwarrantable  acts, 
none  was  more  discreditable  than  his  divorce  from  Catharine,  and  his  mar- 
riage to  the  beautiful  Anne  Boleyn.  The  King's  love  was  as  brief  as  it 
■was  vehement.  Jano  Seymour,  waiting  maid  on  the  Queen,  attracted  him^ 
find  Anne  Boleyn  was  forced  to  the  block  to  make  room  for  her  successor. 
This  romance  is  one  of  extreme  interest  to  all  readers. 

HORSESHOE  ROBINSON.  A  tale  of  the  Tory  Ascendency  in  South  Caro- 
lina in  1780.  By  John  P.  Kennedy.  Cloth,  i2mo.  with  four  illustrations  by  J. 
"Watson  Davis.    Price,  $1.00. 

Among  the  old  favorites  in  the  field  of  what  Is  known  as  historical  fic- 
tion, there  are  none  which  appeal  to  a  larger  number  of  Americans  than 
Horseshoe  Robinson,  and  this  because  it  is  the  only  story  which  depicts 
with  fidelity  to  the  facts  the  heroic  efforts  of  the  colonists  in  South  Caro- 
lina to  defend  their  homes  against  the  brutal  oppression  of  the  Britlsli 
under  such  leaders  as  Cornwallls  and  Tarleton. 

The  reader  is  charmed  with  the  story  of  love  which  forms  the  thread 
of  the  tale,  and  then  impressed  with  the  wealth  of  detail  concerning  those 
times.  The  picture  of  the  manifold  sufferings  of  the  people,  is  never  over- 
drawn, but  painted  faithfully  and  honestly  by  one  who  spared  neithsr 
time  nor  labor  in  his  efforts  to  present  in  this  charming  love  story  all  that 
price  in  blood  and  tears  which  the  Carolinians  paid  as  their  share  in  th« 
••Tinning  of  the  republic. 

Take  it  all  in  all,  "Horseshoe  Robinson"  is  a  work  which  should  be 
found  on  every  book-shelf,  not  only  because  It  is  a  most  entertaining- 
story,  but  because  of  the  wealth  of  valuable  Information  concerning  the 
colonists  which  It  contains.  That  It  has  been  brought  out  once  more,  well 
Illustrated,  is  something  which  will  give  pleasure  to  thousands  who  have 
long  desired  an  opportunity  to  read  the  story  again,  and  to  the  many  who 
have  tried  vainly  in  these  latter  days  to  procure  a  copy  that  they  might 
read  it  for  the  first  time. 

THE  PEARL  OP  ORR'S  ISLAND.  A  story  of  the  Coast  of  Maine.  By 
Harriet  Beecher  Stowe.    Cloth,  i2mo.    Illustrated.    Price,  $1.00. 

Written  prior  to  1862,  the  "Pearl  of  Orr's  Island"  Is  ever  new;  a  book 
filled  with  delicate  fancies,  such  as  seemingly  array  themselves  anew  each 
time  one  reads  tnem.  One  sees  the  "sea  like  an  unbroken  mirror  all 
around  the  pine-girt,  lonely  shores  of  Orr's  Island,"  and  straightway 
comes  "the  heavy,  hollow  moan  of  the  surf  on  the  beach,  like  the  wild 
angry  howl   of  some   savage   animal." 

Who  can  read  of  the  beginning  of  that  sweet  life,  named  Mara,  whicli 
came  Into  this  world  under  the  very  shadow  of  the  Death  angel's  wings, 
without  having  an  intense  desire  to  know  how  the  premature  bud  blos- 
Bomed?  Again  and  again  one  lingers  over  the  descriptions  of  the  char- 
acter of  that  baby  boy  Moses,  who  came  through  the  tempest,  amid  the 
angry  billows,  pillowed  on  his  dead  mother's  breast. 

There  Is  no  more  faithful  portrayal  of  New  England  life  than  that 
which  Mrs.  Stowe  gives   in    "The  Pearl   of  Orr's  Island." 


For  sale  hy  all  booksellers,  or  sent  postpaid  on  receipt  of  price  by  the  pub* 
Ushers,  A.  L.  BURT  COMPANY,  52-58  Duane  St.,  New  York. 


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